


Va attraper une étoile filante

by ColonelDespard



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, kink meme prompt, successful revolution, unlikely happy endings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 08:47:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1544786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColonelDespard/pseuds/ColonelDespard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras, Grantaire, a new republic, the alchemical marriage and the unlikeliest happy-ever-after of all. For a kink meme prompt asking for "Enjolras/R - Wedding Night".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Funeral in the Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Answer to a long-ago prompt on the kink meme, requesting "Enjolras/R - wedding night. (Use the prompt as you will and be as silly or serious as you like, my only requirement is that they actually be happy together in some way and not just almost-happy-but-not-really like in every other Enjolras/R out there!)". I never did find out if the OP liked it or not! 
> 
> It has previously existed in two forms, and I thought I’d try to reconcile them into one version with some rewrites and additions. I’m hoping that if I revise and publish this, it might help me over my current bout of insecurity and allow me to finish some of the stories that linger, like “The Truth We Owe the Dead” and “The Sleep of Reason”. 
> 
> I thought this was an interesting challenge, given that much of the power of their story is based on a reconciliation and redemption that only comes as the barricades fall. Resolving their conflict earlier runs the risk of taking away from the power of that scene - it can be done, but I didn’t attempt it here - instead, I've tried for an AU that, while lacking the power of Hugo's resolution, at least gives them the potential for a happy ending. A realistic resolution to their story? No - this is pure indulgence with a fantasy happy ending, so be warned of that at the outset.

Grantaire hesitated at the entrance to the passage du Doyenné, tucking his battered brown leather document case under one arm as the seductive scents from his favourite crêpe vendor tempted him to reach for his purse. The man smiled with a quirk of his eyebrow and a gesture at his wares, and it took a moment for Grantaire to master himself. But his small household was waiting for him, so he shook his head. “Not tonight,” he said apologetically, and the man replied with a shrug and bid him good evening. After all, with Mardi Gras upon them and the evening just closing in, he would be doing a good trade. 

Turning into the narrow passage and under the street lights, Grantaire thought of past years and past festivities in this street. Passing the neat apartments where the ruins of the Chapelle Doyenné had once stood he felt a pang of nostalgia for the skeletal broken arches and toppled blocks among the nettles that had once dominated this little street. The ruins had worn an air of rustic melancholia much of the year, but they came alive at Mardi Gras when a rackety stand and jolly proprietor would suddenly spring up, doing a roaring trade in drink for the revellers in all their masquerade finery. 

It must be admitted that the current appearance of the street, with its neatly restored and new residential buildings, all in a good state of repair and cleanliness, was certainly an improvement on the nightsoil and decay of the past and those early years they had lived here. It was a welcome enhancement in both illumination and odour to have streetlights and connections to the sewers. And if sometimes at night he felt he might encounter the ghosts of his youth walking out of the dark corners to meet him – perhaps in the form of three young men, one recognisable as himself, one with an air of reckless bonhomie and one a slight man dressed in the trousers of a rabbit catcher and the gold trimmed coat of an aristocratic peer, laughing arm in arm and throwing confetti at passersby – his sighs for the past were not long lived. He permitted himself the indulgence of nostalgia and memories, particularly for those he had left behind in the vanished years, but the year 1863 had ample charms as well, the chief of which was waiting for him at home. 

Mme Hulot looked up as poked his head into the dining room as she picked up the evening’s unused cutlery. He grimaced apologetically. “He forgot again, didn’t he?” he asked. “Just put those things on the sideboard – we’ll use them tomorrow.” Her look told him she would do no such thing, and that each dish and fork would be returned to its proper place. 

“If only he’d let me take a tray to him of an evening!” She tutted. 

“Even if you adorned the ladle in a tricolour bow and provided fasces for cutlery, he wouldn’t pay it any more attention” Grantaire consoled. 

The study door was slightly ajar, so Grantaire pushed it open. He paused, struck by the scene in front of him. Enjolras, oblivious, continued to work on his papers. The form of his partner was seated in profile against the tall shuttered windows, one hand to his brow and the other holding a pen that flowed over the paper. His writing hand moved swiftly, the ideas unstinting, the outward manifestation of a mind as active as ever. He must have been working here for hours, probably since Grantaire had left in the late afternoon to visit his publisher. The gas light sconces had not been lit, and the single source of illumination was a table lamp. It was important business for the Republic, no doubt – it was always important business.

Drawn back to his early art studies, Grantaire was reminded of Godfried Schalcken's works, and the effects of candlelight on a subject's features in an otherwise dark room. But the picture before him had none of the slightly sinister overtones of the Dutch master's work. Rather, the years seemed wiped away from his lover's features. It smoothed the lines from his face, softened the harsher angles to his form. The sober black of his attire (an old frock coat that was beginning to look a bit rusty – Enjolras was inclined to absent-mindedly let his tailoring lapse) might have clothed the same spare figure of thirty years ago. In this light, the hair that had darkened over the years and now was streaked liberally with grey at the temples seemed all ablaze once again with the warm gold of his youth.

Grantaire did not mind the signs of the encroaching years. He cherished the idea of growing old with Enjolras, hugged it to himself with a secret glee. He was fond of the creases between his partner's eyebrows over his nose and at the corners of his mouth, the grey, and all the other creeping effects of age. They were his delight, a map of intimate knowledge. Now, though, as Enjolras was leaning further towards the paper - evidence that he was straining his eyes trying to read in this dim light (and had no doubt misplaced his reading spectacles again) - it was time to interrupt him.

Grantaire walked softly over the floor rugs, so softly Enjolras did not look up until he felt the arms wrap around and his shoulders. He put his pen down and clasped the hands that closed tightly over his chest in an embrace. Grantaire stopped to breathe a kiss into his hair.

"Have you come to convey mère Marie's scolding because I have missed our evening meal again?" Enjolras asked, tipping his head back to look at Grantaire with a smile, his shoulders relaxing back into the embrace. 

"No – she thinks that having to remind you to eat twice in one day means that it serves you right if your meal is ruined. But of course, she's keeping some soup on the stove for you. You're banished to sitting in the kitchen to dine tonight. I'll happily share your exile." He paused, running his fingers through Enjolras' hair in a familiar gesture. "Do you recall what day it is?"

"Day of the week? Monday, do you mean?"

Grantaire shook him slightly.

"It's an anniversary you should remember."

Enjolras now shifted in his seat to look back at Grantaire, curiosity engaged. "Anniversary? I can't think-"

"Our wedding night."

"Our...?" The crease between his eyes deepened in mild puzzlement. "I'm sure I'd recall something as irregular as a wedding ceremony for us." He smiled, and as Grantaire moved his hand down to stroke that pale cheek, Enjolras reached up to lace his fingers in those of his beloved. "Formal recognition might not be possible, but I disdain any idea that our love and union are lesser because of it."

"You still think like a lawyer, however many years you have sat as a representative in that great congregation of egos, windbags and the odd noble entity that somehow blundered their way into what constitutes our National Assembly. I did not say wedding," Grantaire murmured, his voice taking on a tone less teasing and more husky. "I said wedding night. Mardi Gras fell on February 16th in 1833 – that was the day Pontmercy married, and the first night that you and I were together as one."

"Ah."

Grantaire ran his thumb over Enjolras' cheek, a gentle stroke, but with the firm, long accustomed touch that gave it added intimacy. Enjolras' eyelids hooded his gaze slightly, memory alight in the blue eyes.

"I have always thought of that as our wedding night," Grantaire continued. "It was when we were joined in body and in soul." He bent down and kissed Enjolras with the same soft, sure touch of his caressing fingers over his lover's features. "And we have not been apart since."

"No..." Enjolras smiled, so close that Grantaire could feel the heat of his body set against the evening chill. "Never apart." He reached up a hand to the back of 

Grantaire's head and pressed him in for one of those swift, fierce kisses, warm and long.

Thirty years, and he still had the capacity to provoke surprise and wonder in Grantaire.

It was a curious thing, this alchemical wedding. 

Grantaire had been Enjolras' constant companion for the previous three decades - a relationship that was tacitly understood by many and referred to obliquely and with hostility by some of the more reactionary journalists and once, in a memorable incident, unmistakably alluded to during a particularly heated debate in the National Assembly. But Enjolras' reserved general demeanor, his cold refusal to respond to ad hominems and his complete separation of his public and private life largely protected his home life from scrutiny. 

Most, seeing only the upright, scrupulous Friend of the People (as it pleased the more left leaning sections of the press to call him, prompting a delighted Courfeyrac to dub him "Marat" in their private circle) believed – or chose to believe – that the irascible individual who was always at his side really was his secretary, as he was vaguely referred to when official acknowledgement was necessary. It served as a title for his companion at those functions Enjolras attended, who worked late with him in his chambers and who travelled with him both for business and those brief, rather austere holidays he took when worn down by the unceasing round of public duties. 

It was Courfeyrac also who, years before, eyes flitting from one to the other with mischief, had irreverently suggested with a grin that Grantaire was Enjolras' secretary in the same sense that some men liked to install pretty "housekeepers" in their homes. Grantaire cheerfully parried, pointing out that the comparison fell down because he hardly had beauty to recommend him, and because his skill at assisting Enjolras with his speeches and papers was more impressive than the average indulged mistress' ability to run a household. "In short, I'm more utilitarian than decorative!" he concluded. Enjolras shook his head, but did so with a smile of his own and a murmured "you are quite indispensable to me" before he changed the subject. 

And it had all begun because Grantaire had gone out into the rain one day. 

That was the tangent, the bridging moment – and to think, he had hardly intended that day to go anywhere. 

Misery was what he remembered when he thought of how it all commenced. He had wandered the streets all of the night of June 4th, more bereft of purpose than was even his usual wont, finding no respite in mind or body. Whispers everywhere of legitimist plots, of republicans running guns, of men moving in Paris who had no papers, no business to state, uttering cryptic phrases and refusing to speak plainly. Words spoken in hurried undertones Grantaire had no wish to untangle, furtiveness everywhere, and many comings and goings in the Musain. Were government officials poisoning wells and afflicting the populace with cholera? Or had republicans been seen carrying black bags that contained instruments to spread the contagion? The answer varied depending on which café you were in, which print seller you spoke to along the Seine, where you took your coffee. In the night, the red lights of the first aid stations set up for the cholera epidemic glowed like coals in the dark.

Only in Joly and Bossuet had there been some daylight respite from the ominous foreboding of that night and rainy morning, and for a few hours he could almost forget what was without, lightening their talk with redirections and gossip, deflecting any serious consideration of looming events. He was well advanced on the road to thorough drunkenness when word came from their leader, and then was irritated with Enjolras for not sending for him. The summons had instead gone to Bossuet.  
That Grantaire had given Enjolras no reason to trust him and had more or less blundered in most tasks he offered to undertake made no difference to his irrational, petulant anger at Navet's coded message. He was seldom very rational regarding the object of his idolatry, and it stung unreasonably that Enjolras assumed that he would not come if called, was drunk, or worse - that he had not even thought of Grantaire at all. He wavered a few minutes, tempted to stay where he was, half wishing to prove himself, unable to decide. He had not been on the streets in 1830 with his friends. Perhaps this time – 

It took Bossuet and Joly heaving themselves up from the table for him to make up his mind, Joly's feet tangling around each other as he looked for his cane, grumbling about the onset of pneumonia while Bossuet laughed about the holes in his coat letting the water into it and then letting it drain out.  
"Well, far be it from me to miss Enjolras' funeral!" Grantaire observed as he struggled into his coat. 

And so he walked out into the rain with his friends in the direction of the Boulevard Bourdon, straining for an air of nonchalance in the burgeoning crowd as his eyes darted everywhere, hoping to light on a tall, slim blond figure whose elusive grace and incandescence not even the grime of a Paris funeral in the grey drizzle could diminish.

With the atmosphere on the streets all his uneasiness returned, a discomfort that penetrated through his slowly dispersing haze of alcohol the closer they came to their destination. All around him were men and women with set, grim mouths, ominously silent crowds, and glimpses here and there of weapons under coats and visibly outlined beneath workers' smocks that were soaked through with rain. Something was going to happen, a thunderclap was going to burst over their heads, and who could say how this day might end?


	2. To gain and to lose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Revolution that Grantaire did not sleep through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies - this is the chapter where I pretty much hand-waved a Revolution.

It was summer the first time Grantaire saw Enjolras. Or at least looking back he thought it was, as all the emotion and imagery associated with that first meeting was infused with summer warmth and light. Enjolras was walking with Courfeyrac, the two conversing as they approached where Grantaire stood, passing under the shades and patches of light filtering through overhanging tree branches in the Luxembourg. Courfeyrac he already knew – it seemed at times that all of Paris knew Courfeyrac - but it was not his incorrigible, exuberant friend that Grantaire had eyes for. It was the tall, graceful figure at his side. He held something in his hands. Grantaire didn't know what the object was, precisely, for Grantaire's entire attention was fixed on the boy's long, sensitive fingers, turning something over, carefully...examining it, absentmindedly toying with it...it didn't matter. His face was turned down, the brim of his hat and the tendrils of his hair hiding his features – that bright hair that was to forever become part of what "Enjolras" was to Grantaire, part of all the beauty the very word evoked. Like sunlight through translucent leaves on the brightest, clearest days. Like the glow of one of Botticelli’s angels.

It was a moment that stood apart from time and memory. How long it was before Courfeyrac caught sight of him and called Grantaire's name, before Grantaire answered and introductions were secured, he could not later have said. Because Enjolras looked up then, and his blue eyes caught Grantaire's own, and that was all that mattered. The moment would expand over many years in memory and would come to fill all that summer afternoon in Grantaire's imagination, though he could never have remembered precisely what Enjolras had said, or what he himself had answered. Only that the very tenor of Enjolras' voice had set something thrumming in his soul, a vibration or an echo or a recognition.

 

Now, on a very different summer day, he felt immeasurable relief to see Enjolras again – the cortege was so vast, the crowds assembled to see Lamarque pass so dense, that he had feared they would never find the others. As it was, he never saw the coffin pass or the horseman who was to trigger the start of the rising with the flame of a red flag wielded on a grey day. The rest of the ABC had already coalesced around their leader when the trio found them. They were near the warehouses on the Boulevard Bourdon, surrounded by crowds of working men and students. Courfeyrac and Combeferre, of course. Feuilly – how did Feuilly manage to look so damn competent just standing still and surveying the crowd? And what on earth was that in his belt? A sword? Bahorel and Prouvaire had found them, the ever-unlikely companions standing shoulder to shoulder – Prouvaire, he noted absently, had a rather odd idea of what was appropriate to wear to a funeral, the gold thread of the embroidery in his coat evident even at this distance. Grantaire nudged Bossuet and pointed them out, and Bossuet waved and called "Enjolras!"

All of them turned their heads, Courfeyrac's smile lighting up his face, Combeferre waving a hand in greeting and Enjolras nodding briefly, as if this was just exactly to be expected, his core command assembled. Joly took point, and with many "Pardon me's" rendered unintelligible by phlegm, cut his way through the crowd, Bossuet following and Grantaire, suddenly abashed, trailing a few paces.

Because there was the uncomfortable possibility that Enjolras would reject him – and what then? What if he told him he had no place here...or worse, simply turned his back as if Grantaire were nothing to him?

He slowed his steps, shoving someone aside who came between him and the Amis. Enjolras had already taken Joly's chin between thumb and forefinger, turning his face up, and was speaking softly to his friend...no doubt checking on his lieutenant's wellbeing. Whatever Joly said made him smile, and he grasped the medical student's shoulder. He turned to Bossuet, touching his arm, and had a word for him as well.

Grantaire braced himself for the disappointment that was sure to come. The glance lighting on him, the register of surprise or indifference, and then the resumption of quiet conversation with the others, with those he truly trusted. It was an exchanged rehearsed many nights over when the talk turned to politics in the Musain.   
The moment came- Enjolras, pulling away from Bossuet, caught sight of Grantaire. The words came to mind, almost to his tongue – a question: "if you permit…?" If the words died before he spoke them, they were still written on his face in naked appeal.

There was, perhaps, just a moment of stillness – it was hard to tell with so many people pressing around them, so much suppressed movement and tension – but it seemed to Grantaire that besides that still second, there was no hesitation or even surprise to be read on Enjolras' face. The bitterly anticipated words, either a question or a repulse, did not come. Enjolras took a step towards him, and then there was a hand that reached out to grasp his own and eyes that met his evenly.  
Then Courfeyrac was slapping Grantaire on the back and his sweet, rilling laughter – so utterly wrong in this time and place and so completely Courfeyrac – was in his ear, and Bahorel was giving him a friendly cuff on the ear, and then he was borne away with all of them, their attention directed to the dragoons that approached, and the shouts and cries that were beginning to come from further along the procession.

Grantaire wished he were more sober – did Enjolras smell the sourness of the wine on him? Of course he must – because this was all too confusing...a whirl of sound and people pressing against him, of figures coming between him and Enjolras, and...and what had that touch meant?

And the Dragoons charged – had something triggered it? Had there been a shot? From where had it come, which side? - and the storm erupted, coming down upon them in unmitigated fury.

The next few hours were a jumble of confused fragments. He had been in danger of sobering up, but as they ran through the streets, crying of building barricades, he had dropped into a wineshop whose owner hadn't been quick enough to bar his doors from the mob. Seizing up a bottle (later to be shared surreptitiously with Bahorel), he told them to charge the brandy to the Republic.

Barricades were going up, the fire catching hold, the conflagration in his brain as well as the streets. He was there, he was one of them – he sang songs with Prouvaire, he doled out ammunition with Combeferre, he took messages from Enjolras to Feuilly in the upper story of the Cafe they had commandeered near the site of their hastily assembled barricade.

He swam in and out of the conversations around him. 

“Courfeyrac, how did you manage to acquire a Lefaucheux revolver? Let me see-” 

“Oh, ho! If I hand it over to you will I see it again, or does it join your own private arsenal? And don’t tell me your interest is purely scientific!” Combeferre and Courfeyrac, Enjolras’ left and right hands, leaned back against an overturned table bickering good naturedly over the efficacy and mechanics of the 20-shot revolver, Courfeyrac fending off his friend’s attempts to try and dismantle it enough to example the double rotating cylinder mechanism.

“Jolllly, have some brandy for that cold-” Grantaire passed the bottle. “You’ve been studying your tongue in that mirror more assiduously than ever any Helen or Lilith of old used a glass to admire their own features - ”

“Hab you heard Lesgle sneeze? And hid node id shinier than hid head, and I’m worried thid rain id too bad for him – here, led me thee your tongue, Eagle.”

“Your cold is doubly cruel, my friend – bad enough you have it, worse that it gives your speaking voice a theatrical thickness even an actor on the stage at the Théâtre des Variétés would hesitate to emulate.” Grantaire said, tucking Joly’s coat closer around him. “And anyway, Bossuet doesn’t need you - there’s nothing wrong with the tongue of a man who can single-handedly convince a driver and passengers to give up possession of an omnibus they happen to have in hand. That is a rare, singular talent for any man’s tongue.”

“And anyway, Musichetta tells me there’s nothing wrong any of my organs.” Bossuet winked with a cheerful lewdness at Joly, who diverted his attention from the mirror in his hand to grin up at his friend. “Don’t worry – first chance I get, I’ll find way to get word to her…Gavroche won’t leave the barricade again, but one of his fellow sparrows will hop across our path sooner or later.” 

“Bossuet, Grantaire – would you assist me in reinforcing the barricade’s left flank? It’s not as solid as it looks – some of that furniture is flimsy, and we need to add some reinforcement.” Enjolras broke easily into their conversation, addressing both with equal familiarity. “More paving stones, I think, if we can spare them – some of Feuilly’s men have torn more up.”

“A flying buttress of paving stones to support the Republican cathedral, eh?” Grantaire said. “Maurice de Sully would approve the masonry, if not the cause.”  
“We tear up paving stones for our ediface, he tore up houses and the odd cathedral to accommodate his – thus does Paris renew itself” Enjolras said. Grantaire caught his smile as he turned to the task at hand. 

 

It all swirled to madness in the early hours of the following morning – Enjolras his only beacon as the fighting went hand to hand, Enjolras thrusting a sword into his grip, knowing his expertise as a batonnist, and the two of them, side by side...where? Some dim awareness – the Hôtel de Ville, its familiar façade strangely disfigured and rendered unfamiliar by smoke and shot – and he could see Courfeyrac with his hair flying back, reckless, Feuilly with his cap pulled down tight over his eyes, cool and guarding himself as he followed Enjolras’ curt orders with brief acknowledgement and directed the fire of those under him, Combeferre with the air of a bemused professor, firing deliberately if not terribly effectively...and he felt an overwhelming surge of boundless love for all of them, his wayward, adored friends.

Most overwhelmingly of all there was a surpassing love and veneration for the man who stood at his shoulder, the beautiful creature that looked as if he had descended from heaven itself, clothed in flame and sparking lightening from his eyes...but whose hands were black with powder, and who had a fine sheen of sweat on his upper lip and whose shirt clung damply under his arms with perspiration. The impossible reconciled, the improbable incarnate before him. The ideal rendered very real and human enough to touch.

Grantaire felt the ecstasy of the moment swell within him, as if it must spill from his very fingertips. The cry came from his throat, encompassing all of them – "Vive la République! I am one of them!"

And Enjolras turned to him. What Grantaire saw in his eyes, the answering joy, untainted by any doubt, could have made him forget to breath. Enjolras gestured towards him, as if he would stretch out that long slim hand to grasp Grantaire's own, but then there was another surge from the National Guard, and their attention returned to the battle.

They won.

It hardly seemed possible – Grantaire had not been there in July 1830, but he remembered their descriptions of it. The National Guard units turning, the people hurling paving stones from the windows – it was all familiar, in a strange way. Even the blanketing quality of the silence when the guns fells silent, in spite of loud excited voices and frenetic motion, pausing only briefly when realisation fell on all. 

Then there were cheers ringing out, and Enjolras, the calm centre, was calling out names – checking to see that they were all there. They'd lost some along the way – Marius had been taken in hand by that odd old chap back at the barricades when he'd fallen injured (Grantaire had been astonished by his recklessness – who would have thought dreamy Marius had it in him?) and Bahorel had been left back with the wounded. But gradually the lieutenants of the society filtered through the crowds, making their way back to Enjolras. The beacon for all of them, their leader and their touchstone. Joly was bandaging up Courfeyrac's arm, tsking over his wounds, while Bossuet seemed to be making some complicated joke about his luck changing. 

Grantaire was trying to think of something to say suitable to the occasion, but then he realized Combeferre and someone who had been pointed out to him as a leader of the of the Amis du Peuple were speaking urgently to Enjolras about the Tuileries and Enjolras was nodding gravely in response. Confused, he hesitated. A brief turn in mood, and then the Amis were embracing each other, Courfeyrac hardly seeming to know whether to throw himself on Enjolras or Combeferre first, and settling for sweeping them both up in his arms, squeezing them fiercely, before turning his attention to an already hugging Joly and Bossuet.

Distracted, he realized someone was at his side. This time Enjolras did touch Grantaire's hand – enveloped it in his own. There was no shadow in his smile, and the warmth touched his eyes, all the more blue against the grey skies, though in that moment it seemed to Grantaire as if the sun had risen and must be illuminating the world.

But then other hands were plucking at Enjolras, and they were talking again about the Tuileries, and he heard mention of the men of St Merry and what was to be done next. Lafayette and Orléans and fierce declarations that this time it would be different, and their victory would not be stolen from them.

Immediately, Enjolras was himself again - distant and inviolate, walking away from Grantaire surrounded by a crowd of people who were clamouring for his attention. He looked behind once, but already there was a sea of people between them, and it could not be Grantaire whom Enjolras looked for in all that crowd.  
He was soon lost to sight, and Grantaire let the sword in his hand fall to the ground.

The Republic had just reclaimed Enjolras. In their victory, Grantaire feared he had lost him forever.


	3. The drawing in of days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the revolution behind them and the Republic in place, there is a parting of the ways

Grantaire would not see Enjolras again until the seasons had turned, summer fading into autumn. He hardly noticed the change walking the streets in his threadbare coat, feet kicking aside the dead leaves and horse chestnut seeds that resulted from the profusion of blossoms the spring had seen. The slow drawing in of the days was not of note, until one afternoon he looked up, startled, having caught the reflection of Louisin’s movements as she lit the stove in the backroom of the Musain. She did it as a kindness – he was the sole occupant.

He was always cold these days if he allowed himself to sober up enough to feel it. After those first few weeks of confusion, with uncertainty over supplies of bread and omnibuses and the dismantling of barricades and relaying of paving stones, life continued for him much as it had before…with one significant exception, and that the most important of all. The Amis were off doing God knows what - if it could be said that they still existed at all as a coherent body and not just a loose association of friends and former comrades in arms.

They might as well have been disbanded with the success of the Revolution. He wondered sometimes if they would ever again be all in the same room, let alone partaking of the old camaraderie. He still came to the Musain for news of them, almost ritualistically returning to the backroom. There was a half formed hope that he might walk in one day and they would all be there, with the easy company restored. Sometimes Joly or Lesgle would drop in to see him, reasonably confident of finding him there or nearby, or he might come across them in one of their cabaret haunts. Bahorel sought him from time to time in those early days. Courfeyrac, too, made something of an effort to bring him news when he could, although he was now racing through his studies so he could pass the bar and devote himself more fully to his new job as secretary to a cabinet minister.

Grantaire tried not to betray his eagerness when Courfeyrac brought bottles of wine with plates of cheese and herrings and regaled him with stories of their mutual friends. The soon-to-be advocate had given up trying to interest Grantaire in the progress of the constitutional debates, and limited himself to gossip about their circle, a circle with which Grantaire was ever-more disengaged. He told Grantaire of how he had managed to reunite Marius with his grandfather - there was some connection between the de Courfeyracs and the Saint-Germain circles in which M. Gillenormand had been a leading light, and once Gillenormand had learned of his grandson's injuries he had flown to his side. Gillenormand and Courfeyrac, though separated by age and politics, evidently rather and enjoyed each other's company and were united in singing from the same hymn sheet in approval of Pontmercy's fiancée.

"Far too good for Marius, of course," Courfeyrac said, pouring a generous lashing of margaux into Grantaire's glass, "but she's too smitten with those black curls to see my natural charms, so I've given the happy couple my blessing." It was easy for Grantaire to see that no one could be more pleased at his friend's good fortune than Courfeyrac.

"Bahorel is talking about investing in a vineyard – I don't know whether he's bullied or cajoled his parents into putting up the funds…"

"Has Lesgle told you? He's threatening to complete his studies...I predict a series of natural disasters will strike first…"

"Joly still thinks he has the same cold he caught in June…"

"Combeferre is working with Arago – I don't know whether they spend more time on curious experiments involving chunks of glass or on agitating for immediate abolishment of slavery in the colonies…"

"Feuilly seems to be spending a lot of time with that young chap, Blanc, these days – but I know you're not interested in the workshop reforms…"

"Prouvaire is working as Enjolras' assistant…"

The last caught Grantaire's attention completely, but all he responded with was a mild "Ah? Is that so? Our little poet is writing Pindaric odes for the Republic, is he?"  
There was no bitterness in his voice, he assured himself. But Courfeyrac looked at him oddly.

"No…he and Enjolras have been travelling around the country. They sent him off to Lyon as soon as Paris was secure, and he's been assisting in the other departments as well. Haven't seen much of him in Paris – he's only ever here on his way to somewhere else."

"Thriving, I suppose." Grantaire said, holding the stem of his glass between his forefinger and thumb, he twirled the liquid around, watching it roll around the sides of the vessel, the red clinging to the glass. Then he deliberately drained it at a gulp and picked up the bottle itself, throwing back his head to take long, luxurious swallows.

Courfeyrac didn't acknowledge the gesture.

"He's working too hard, Grantaire. I don't think he's stopped to breathe since he returned. I'm glad he has Prouvaire with him, but you know how Prouvaire is – stubborn and determined with that inimitable shrewdness, yes, but worshiping the very ground that supports the chief. I don't think he always sees it when Enjolras overtaxes himself, or if he does, the spirit does not move him to interfere. He has always trailed clouds of prophesy and Old Testament glory for Prouvaire - and if Jehan sees something angelic there, it isn’t merely Daniel’s vision with the burning eyes, but rather something Ezekiel dreamed up. Combeferre wanted to go with Enjolras as an assistant, but Enjolras insists that he's needed here with Arago, and that it would be a waste of resources the Republic can't afford to squander to have two of them on the same mission."

"And you?" Grantaire asked, squinting and peering with one eye into the mouth of the bottle, apparently studying its contents. "Why aren't you with our erstwhile leader?"

"He won't have me, either – says I need to finish my studies and work in the Chamber of Deputies. He only grudgingly allowed Prouvaire to accompany him because Prouvaire had already taken a leave of absence from the university without asking Enjolras about it first, and then showed some of that tenacity in sticking to him so fixedly that Enjolras couldn't shake him off if he tried.

"Is he unwell?" Grantaire asked, trying to hold onto his air of unconcern.

"No…well enough. Thin, but wiry as ever. But it can't be healthy, how he lives."

"He doesn't breathe the same air as you and I, Courfeyrac. He exists on some other plane, and seeks his sustenance elsewhere. You've heard of toads that live for years underground as the dirt around them solidifies into rock, until a movement of the earth releases them? Picture an angel – Prouvarian or not - preserved that way…encased in crystallized ideals and dreams. I think he could endure without sleep or food or…"

"I'm not so sure," Courfeyrac interrupted. "Things have changed. Dawn goes down to common day, my friend."

Grantaire began to laugh. "Are you saying the bloom is off the rose, and now with the revolutionary maidenhead lost, Enjolras is just a common man?” The laugh fell flat. “Neither of us will live to see him become an ordinary man."

"That's not what I mean." Courfeyrac said, reaching for his hat. "But remember – he's part of the world we all live in now. I'm not saying he's tarnished by reality, but he's not a remote and divine figure, either. The Republic exists now in two forms – the reality we have brought about, and the ideal republic of our dreams. He was a soldier in response to circumstances, but now those circumstances have changed. His feet touch the ground, and he has need to walk on it. And he's trying to do that. I just don't want the dichotomy to…well, we must help him. All of us."

Grantaire muttered something bitter and unintelligible.

"You should see him. He'll be back in Paris within the week. Go round call on him in his office in the Palais des Tuileries, at least."

An incomprehensible grunt was Grantaire's response.

"He has asked after you, you know." Courfeyrac's Parthian shot from the door. "He always does."

Grantaire didn't answer at all this time. He waited until Courfeyrac's footsteps had gone before looking around the empty back room. In the silence, it still seemed as if the walls echoed back lost laugher and argument and above all that clear, haunting voice with the rising lilt of hymn.

 

 

Within the week, venturing from his room near the Musain, Grantaire found himself heading left after crossing the Pont au Change instead of towards the Marais and the café that had been his destination when he walked out his door. Not entirely intentional, no, but he knew where his footsteps were taking him. 

"Just a walk", he told himself. He hadn't been near the Tuileries in months, and rarely took himself over the river. There seemed little cause to venture near the Corinth, now that his friends did not frequent it (certainly, the fare on offer was no inducement), and with his erstwhile companions scattered around the city – the country, even - he did not care for places that were too much out of his way. Instead, he spent his time in his familiar Latin Quarter haunts, painting the tourist daubs by which he supplemented the stipend his mother sent him. Business had slackened briefly after June, but the visitors had come trickling back. 

The palace did not seem to have overly suffered from the fighting that had taken place in June, unlike the Hôtel de Ville which still had an unnerving gap-toothed look about it with part of the façade destroyed. The capture of the king's residence had been an almost anti-climactic affair after the heavy fighting earlier in the day, and Grantaire had snorted to see some of the engravings of the event the print sellers were hawking, glorifying it as the "Storming of the Tuileries". The new government had headquartered themselves there and begun the work of transitioning to the institutions of the Republic. 

And somewhere up there, Grantaire told himself, looking at the wall of windows on the neo-classical façade, were Enjolras' chambers. He tried to guess where they might be, as the blank panes reflecting back the grey sky told him nothing and seemed utterly indifferent to his interest. On the Rue de Rivoli side, he imagined, facing away from the river. Somewhere near the top floor. It would be small and poky…a sub-attic room under the eaves. How odd to think of him contained there, a component of the bureaucratic support for the transitional government. Working for Auguste Caunes, Minister for Internal Affairs…or some such title that Grantaire couldn't precisely recall.

He thought he grasped at least loosely what Courfeyrac had been talking about. Enjolras was a soldier and the embodiment of republican philosophy. How did the personification of the necessities and pressures of 1793 transition into the France of the future? Violent in response to the violent threats he faced, he himself had anticipated a time when he would have no place. For a moment Grantaire idly contemplated the desirability of a war of foreign intervention – that would be an adequate threat and a role for the Warrior-Priest of the ideal – but no…things were tending in a different direction. Even Grantaire could chuckle at the idea of wanting to provide a conflagration so Enjolras could be in a familiar milieu.

Enjolras seemed equally both at home and exceptionally out of place in the smoky, low-ceilinged nook of a medieval tavern as he did in a lecture hall or, Grantaire imagined, as he would in the chambers of the Assembly. It both frightened and compelled Grantaire to think that the moment he had seen his friend looking most completely in command and right for his time and place was during the insurrection, both in the bloody hand-to-hand fighting and in finding the words for why they fought.

He had moved into a new sphere, away from contact with the world Grantaire knew. And Grantaire had the terrible, wrenching feeling that their worlds were never meant to overlap, any more than the eagle was meant to notice the toad in its ditch. It was his part to gaze and wonder – it was not Enjolras' part to notice he existed. The more desperate his attempts to draw that gaze, even if it were from a disdainful distance, the more he widened the gap between them.

Until June. Something had happened then, or so he thought. He had raised himself in Enjolras' eyes…not the gaudy, flapping character of the fool at the feast, paying for attention with words his only currency, but by that moment of vivid and pure conviction. 

How could I deceive myself? He wondered. And surely, on reflection, Enjolras would see through the deception. "Vive la Republique"? What stupid impulse had given birth to those words? 

My whole life, thought Grantaire bitterly, a series of stupid impulses – words thrown like kites into the air to see which ones fly, impulsive loves and impulsive actions.  
But Enjolras had believed. When he had turned to Grantaire, under the shadow of the Hôtel de Ville, his face had been alight with belief, shining with something transfiguring. For that moment, Grantaire had ceased to exist as an individual entity, as he was entirely caught up as one with his friends and their cause and their dream. He had finally felt Enjolras close enough to touch. 

It was a lie. It must be. And Enjolras would turn those blue eyes on him and strip that away, seeing the truth, whatever momentary dazzle had blinded him when they fought beside each other. Enjolras was always willing to believe in possibilities, but that frank, candid nature ripped away falsehood, which dissolved in the face of his conviction and his honesty, as uncompromising with himself as with others. 

Coming to the entrance of the building, glimpsing the great staircase, Grantaire wondered if he dared try gain entry. He had no calling card, of course, but could try to talk his way past the guards, try to convince the officious men who guarded such gates to send word up to M. Enjolras that an acquaintance had come to call. 

The barriers between them had never been greater. Not only the consciousness of his deception, but even the simple physical problem of reaching him. 

Just a moment, he thought bitterly. Chance threw us together for the briefest interval. In twenty years’ time, I'll watch him – wearing sombre Republican black, of course, but part of the machinery of the State – ride past in his carriage from my place in the gutter. And I, a drunken sot, turning to another drunken sot who sits beside me, saying "I knew him, once -", and my fellow degenerate will laugh in my face and proclaim his own intimate acquaintance with the Emperor Napoleon… 

But this is maudlin, he told himself. Why this tendency to be mawkish? Enjolras has passed out of your sphere forever – let him go. There are other pretty boys in Paris…go find some other hothead in a café who has a way of turning his head with that slight, listening inclination that makes you catch your breath, and who has a stillness and a dignity that speak louder than a hundred voices. 

Could Enjolras really have asked after him? No, that was equally impossible. It was an utterly typical falsehood for Courfeyrac, who could lie blithely for the benefit of his friends. Enjolras was gone. 

He gave a final long look up at the windows, grey with indifference. Behind those walls, whatever struggle Enjolras faced to bridge the gap between a France where the immediate circumstances were no longer violent and Republican institutions were in place, but where shadowy and less obvious threats within and without still remained, it was no part of him. Saint-Michel must wrestle with putting the flaming sword away, but there was nothing Grantaire could do that would change those circumstances to help or to hinder.

"Love, thine is the future" he mumbled with bitter irony, and turned away.


	4. Inexorable progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Enjolras and Grantaire come face to face again, and Grantaire confronts change.

Enjolras came to him.

It was an event as unexpected as it was desired. Grantaire had dreamed of it by night and idly found himself thinking about it by day, conjuring up scenarios in which they ran into each other in the street, or in which Courfeyrac brought him back to the Musain for the sake of the old days – a flimsy reason, given how little attraction an appeal to naked nostalgia would have for Enjolras, but he had to think of some reason why their paths might converge again, even for a moment. But he had so far allowed the voice of reason in his head, or what he supposed passed for reason, to convince him that Enjolras had flown beyond his reach that it still came as a surprise to hear his footsteps in the long passage outside their old meeting room, the sound carrying through the slightly ajar door. He would know it anywhere, he thought – that light, firm, free step. He looked around frantically, a surge of joy doing battle with dismay over the thought that this wasn't how he wanted Enjolras to find him, sitting alone and surrounded by the detritus of a drinking spree.

But there was no time to hide the scattered bottles and half-eaten plate of food before the door was pushed fully open, and there he was – Enjolras, in that same shabby black great coat Grantaire knew so well, his hair falling to a length just a shade beyond the fashionable, his cravat tied high and with an unconcern that might have seemed an affectation but was in fact the indifference that many students and Romantics strove to counterfeit.

Grantaire saw it all immediately – that, and tired purple shadows he thought he could make out under the young man's eyes, even in the dim light thrown out by the single lamp.

"Grantaire," Enjolras said, then seemed to hesitate a moment before walking to the stove, adding wood and opening the flue a bit more, accustomed to the trick of turning the lever. "It's cold," he commented in a voice that was as conversational as Grantaire had ever heard it. Grantaire, feeling cold always, hadn't particularly noticed but yes – the room was chilly. He watched mutely as Enjolras went to the candle cupboard and took out a taper, lighting it from the stove and then touching it to the candles in the wall sconces and the wick of an unlit lamp, adjusting the flame. That done, Enjolras finally removed his coat, put it over a chair, and came to sit opposite Grantaire. He moved the empty bottles to one side, then leaned forward and regarded his friend with that familiar earnestness and attention – an expression that Grantaire could rarely remember having been directed at him, not since the very earliest days of their acquaintance.

"How have you been, my friend?" he asked.

Grantaire blinked and had to bite back a bubbling, frivolous answer. No, he could not do that – not the usual cheerfully glib froth of words. This was Enjolras. This required a serious response.

"Well enough! The thiasus is somewhat reduced in number, now that the victory of the Republic has dispersed my fellow satyrs and sileni, and the maenads prove as elusive as ever…" He broke off.

Always, always the wrong words. Had he offended some malignant deity that had then cast a compulsion on him to be frivolous and inconsequential when he most wanted to be serious? He waited for that disdainful curl of the Enjolras' lip. At least it would be something – a reaction that he had engendered, an acknowledgement - even if it was contempt.

It was the most he could ever hope for.

Enjolras nodded seriously, and then did something quite remarkable.

He sucked in that full lower lip slightly, as if he were considering something thoughtfully. He might even be chewing on the inside edge.

This was a thing so unprecedented as to be staggering. It was so ridiculously human a gesture that Grantaire was as struck as if Enjolras had burst into song or applied himself to one of the half-filled bottles of wine.

Grantaire gathered himself up and decided it might be worth trying again for conversation. Talking to Enjolras. That had never happened. They had directed words at each other – he in streams of babbling, sometimes nervous, sometimes drunken exuberance, and Enjolras in abrupt, harsh, brief responses. What they had not done was connect or occupy the same mode of discourse. They spoke at, not to, each other. But perhaps, on this new footing, in these new circumstances and in spite of the familiar surroundings, they might be able to simply talk.

"I've missed it, you know. It's only been a few months, but I miss what we had. Even as a satellite, I miss their liveliness and their warmth. Ah well – my loss is the Republic's gain," he tried to sound bright. It was hard to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, though he hoped to say it to please Enjolras.

"Grantaire-"

"I suppose it all had to end one day, eh? Newly fledged advocates flock back to their provincial homes when Papa calls or their allowance dries up, and would-be doctors tire of playing with cadavers and decide to move on to living patients. I suppose there's a certain prestige to be had in the fact that it took a revolution to break up our little circle, rather than the usual mundane dispersal."

"Grantaire, this was the end of but one part of our story. We could not stay there forever. Stagnation would have been our fate had we done so. We have dared, and we have won. Now we move forward."

"You move forward, you mean. Stagnation is my lot – like water that pools in a dried up stream. I'm all mossy, filled with rotting leaf litter, the home of toads and mosquito larvae and all the things that live in decay."

"The deluge has scoured through the streams – and stirred you too, dissipating the stagnation, restoring vigor and life and the natural course of the river. I saw you, Grantaire. You fought as one of us."

More than anything, Grantaire wanted to say something to justify Enjolras' delusion that somehow he had been converted to the mighty cause by his experiences of June. But he had tried it before, long ago – lies about Hébert and revolutionary fire and had tripped readily off his lips, until the inevitable unmasking had left him crushed and humiliated. He could not do it again, not even for that desperately sought approval.

"I wish," he said, chipping a piece of wax off the table with his thumbnail and feeding it into a candle flame, "more than anything that I was the man you think I am. But there's no pearl of republican conviction concealed beneath my oyster-like exterior. That was a moment of exuberance brought on by the over-excitement of a good brawl." He was almost spitting the words. "I wish it were something more, but the only thing I believe in is you."

"It is not that simple," Enjolras declared, and Grantaire dared to dart a glance at him. He was almost calm, almost, but leaning forward with just a touch of eagerness to his manner. Grantaire knew that look – yes, sure enough, Enjolras was steepling his fingers together and regarding him with that terrible, penetrating look. "The Republic is not merely an empty iteration of dogma. A slogan is only a form of words by which we seek to clothe an idea, an eternal truth. Take, for example, fraternité. What did you exhibit in June but fraternité, fighting for your brothers?"

"I fought for my friends," he argued. "Not for humanity in general, not for any overarching ideal of the great brotherhood of man."

"That is where it begins. We are all imperfect. But I saw you care for something outside yourself. It was not self-interest that lead you to impose yourself between the guard and Combeferre when the line nearly broke at the barricade. It was something beyond the mere diversion of a street brawl when you spent the night passing up and down the barricade with cheer and armaments. It was a man who had grown and changed who stood beside me and faced down the National Guard until they turned to our side."

Grantaire's intake of breath might be a gasp or a sob.

"I want…more than anything, to be the man you think I am," he insisted stubbornly. "But I'm not-"

"How do you know what sort of man I think you are? Some truths are immutable, and we, being imperfect, grope our way towards them. It is a matter of degree. Sometimes we falter, or find the wrong path. But we are all a part of a progression, and however imperfectly we perceive it, we turn out faces to the dawn."

"I – God, Enjolras-" impulsively he grasped his friend's hand, then dropped it immediately, shocked at his own temerity. "I wish you were right."

"Let me prove it to you." Enjolras, smiling, resuming the handclasp. "I do not expect you to effect a complete transfiguration on the basis of one event, but if you allow it, it may be a start. Just a spark of belief."

"I believe in you. Not Patria or Marianne or the Republic or the Rights of Man and Citizen or God or his Saints. Only you."

"Not just me. Your friends. All of us, to some degree or another. Let that be the kernel of belief. Come work for me."

"What?"

This was a startling new development. Grantaire thought he faced an abstract disputation, but Enjolras had thrown something startlingly practical and down to earth into the conversation. Enjolras had a habit of doing that – he anchored his soaring in the practical world, sometimes when you least expected it.

"I would like you to come and work for me. I need an assistant. We are reaching a critical juncture – Caunes is a leading advocate for modeling our constitution on that of Year III, but moving it beyond so it encompasses the times, so I am much occupied with the drafting and committee work. The ultras that remain are threatening to walk out on the Assembly."

"What of Prouvaire?"

Enjolras smiled. "Prouvaire's skills are being recognized. He is helping to organize the census, a necessary step to reforming the electoral roll so we may extend suffrage to more of the population. He will no longer be working directly for me."

"Me? Can you imagine me assisting you? I couldn't even manage to open your mail with a consistency of success."

"Let us try it."

"You'd be making a mistake."

"We can give it a month."

"This won't work…" Grantaire started, then caught Enjolras' gaze. Something shot through him, something he saw in that expression that had nothing to do with brotherhood, suffrage or letter opening. A racing heat that flared and tightened in his chest, almost painfully. "It can't work…can it?"

The look that Enjolras gave him, the smile of bright, absolute confidence, fanned the flame that had been lit.


	5. A Petrarchan Sonnet Gone Awry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Enjolras has little patience with the norms of Courtly Love or the expected behaviour of the Divine Adored.

"Is it true-" Jehan asked of Courfeyrac, who was half-seated on the apron of the small closed window with his back to the cold panes, "that you sang _Ça Ira_ at M. Gillenormand the other night? Combeferre swears it is."

Enjolras' chambers were not particularly generous in size – a cupboard with an adjacent cubbyhole for himself as Enjolras' assistant, as Grantaire characterized it - but as they were the largest of any occupied by the group of friends who worked in the Tuileries, they had become something of a meeting place. Courfeyrac and Combeferre were often to be found dropping in to discuss a knotty point of legislature or politics, and when Prouvaire was in Paris he made use of their facilities – which primarily consisted of a temperamental stove over which coffee could be heated in the battered old pot Enjolras kept on it.

On this particular afternoon, a cold winter day, with Christmas nearly upon them, Courfeyrac had tumbled in with some excuse about conferring with his friends over a minor point of reforming theatre censorship, dragging Jehan in his wake, and had settled down comfortably with a pipe for a sociable visit. Enjolras worked through the interruption, offering the occasional comment on the conversation.

"Well, to be fair, we had retired to smoke, and – er – he and I were somewhat in our cups at the time…" Courfeyrac smiled.

"And that you included the Sans-Culotte verses?" Jehan demanded in admiration.

"Yes – but then I invited him to sing a tune too, so we had a rendition of _O Richard, ô mon Roi_. I swear the old boy had tears in his eyes by the final verse, but that might have been more due to the cognac than the song."

"What then?" Grantaire asked, frowning over Enjolras' expense accounts. He tended to use a corner of Enjolras' desk rather than his own, which was usually piled high with books and papers, and that was where he was seated now. Enjolras’ desk was cluttered as well, but it had more space to spare being a great monstrosity of a piece of furniture, a remnant of the Empire period. Once its gilt edges had become too scuffed it had been banished to their upper floor office where it took up a third of the floor space, sitting in stolid majesty. "Did you have Marius join in with something for Bonaparte?"

"No – he was too bashful, of course, or too sober - so I gave a rendition of Saluts des Aigles on his behalf."

Grantaire laughed. "Impending nuptial bliss hasn't made him much easier in company, has it? Still so terribly serious."

"You should have seen him and the bride-to-be at table – I think he would have leaned across Enjolras to spoon feed her. Or she would have spoon fed him. I'm not sure which is more likely. They virtually coo when in any proximity to each other. It's a good thing it was Enjolras seated between them...anyone else would have been rather discomforted at finding himself in a dovecote."

"Has Gillenormand warmed any more to Enjolras?" Jehan asked curiously. Courfeyrac shrugged.

"I don't know what he objects to more – his Republicanism, or his nouveau riche father. His maternal bloodline is a point in his favor. Producing an émigré mother certainly thawed the air by a degree or two – or rather, Combeferre produced her, and Enjolras merely conceded she existed. Gillenormand did unbend enough to state he does think the ultras were extremely foolish to walk out on the Assembly – I think even they've realized they overplayed their hand there."

"The gesture was well-timed from our perspective," Enjolras said, revealing that he still had a disconcerting half-an-ear at least on the conversation. "It removes them from the final debates over suffrage and the constituency redistributions for the general election."

"You should invite me next time you dine chez Gillenormand," Grantaire said, lifting the paper closer to his eyes to squint at the set of figures, changing the subject lest it wander too far into the factional manoeuvring. "Anyone shows up favorably when contrasted with me."

Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he caught Enjolras look up to glance at him. But when he looked up to return the gaze, Enjolras' head was bent down over his papers. He felt an odd little thrill with the gesture, the penetrating look that he seemed to keep surprising in his friend.

"Enjolras," he asked, and the head rose again in response. "Where do you get these figures from? I know a fluency in mathematics is not to be counted in the formidable blazon of my talents, but by my calculations you have quite underestimated your travel for last month by a hundred miles or so! How am I to put in accurate claims for your expenses if you forget to record how far you travel and how many nights you pass in dog-box country inns?"

Enjolras shrugged, as much as to say that such things were of complete indifference to him.

Courfeyrac nudged Jehan.

"So the arrangement is working well, is it? Grantaire has proven to have a hitherto unsuspected depth of bureaucratic skill?" Courfeyrac’s eyebrows were raised high, a fact that did not escape Grantaire, but undoubtedly did Enjolras. 

"He does admirably," Enjolras said, returning to his papers. He was currently wrestling with a setback that Minister Caunes had suffered in his attempts to introduce a document broadly based on the Constitution of the Year III, facing particularly stubborn resistance wielded by a wealthy merchant coalition opposed to immediate abolition of slavery in all the colonies. Arago was proving formidable on this front, and with Caunes formed a strong alliance, but the opposition was both entrenched and intransigent.

"Do you know there's a rumor among the printer's devils?" Courfeyrac asked. "They have to constantly bear the complaints from the typesetters when you transcribe any of Enjolras or Caunes notes for printing. In vengeance, they're spreading a story that one of the typesetters dipped a chicken's feet in ink and let it walk across a sheet of paper, and that when said sheet was shown to Enjolras he not only recognized the writing as your’s, Grantaire, but was able to decipher it."

"No doubt it translated as a pox on all lazy devils who don't know an elegant script when they see it." Grantaire grinned. "I do think you're on to something there with trained chickens, though. Certainly, they have the advantage on Enjolras in that they don't have cuffs to trail in the ink and confound laundresses."

"Speaking of scrawls - have you returned your acceptances for the Pontmercy wedding?" Courfeyrac asked.

"Yes, I posted them a week ago."

"Grantaire." Enjolras said, pointing in the direction of the tarnished silver tray on which their outwards correspondence sat, not looking up from his notes.

"Ah – yes, that might be them."

"I'm calling in to see them today – I've promised Mademoiselle Fauchelevent that I will take Marius out to ensure his tailoring is quite up to snuff. Might see if I can take Gillenormand along and make an evening of it to follow. I'll hand in your acceptances."

Courfeyrac took the envelopes and his leave, with Prouvaire accompanying him. Grantaire saw them to the door, and then wandered back to the desk where he sat and gazed idly at Enjolras, who was still wrapped in concentration, reading his lines and writing the odd phrase out, crossing out passages, rewriting, turning to check a reference in the volumes at his side.

Instead of returning to his work, Grantaire sat back in his chair and regarded his colleague, separated only by the space of the desk.

The arrangement had worked well beyond his expectations. He had, once or twice, joined the Assembly clerks for a few drinks on the sly siphoned off from the supplies for the Representatives, and had found himself at more than one convivial gathering of enthusiastic young men with Courfeyrac at the centre. But these incidents had been surprisingly few. Slinking into their rooms after one such occasion from which Enjolras had excused himself early, he had worked through the day nursing a clanger of a sore head. Enjolras had quietly put a cup of very strong coffee in front of him, but beyond that he had not complained, commiserated or even commented. Grantaire made good his departure for home as soon as he decently could – it was not a disapproving silence, but it was still a silence. He found those hardest of all to bear.

Their working style seemed to suit both. Lacking the discipline for a sustained writing effort, Grantaire had a gift for responding to and reworking Enjolras' articles and the speeches he wrote for Caunes, exchanging ideas and working with him to refine images and even inject the odd bon mot that worked so well on the floor of the Assembly for the minister to deliver. It was not that Enjolras lacked a sense of humour – he had a certain dry wit that he reserved for close company and the odd rather endearingly awful pun - but he was entirely lacking in the earthy touches that enlivened a dry discourse for the men and women who read the newspapers.  


With the reforms on the restrictions of the press, Grantaire found another outlet for his talents. He not only fed slyly humorous stories to the reporters he drank and dined with, he had submitted a series of articles himself under the pseudonym Old Man Jacques, a character starting to gain a popular following. On the surface some of the articles were critical of the government as well as the conservative opposition, but a more subtle reading revealed a favourable slant towards the Republicans. The Bourgeois reactionaries read and laughed at the surface wit, with an unconsciousness of the commentary that underpinned it.

He thought Enjolras was not aware of these marginal occupations. Indeed, he thought it much better that Enjolras not realise who was the source of some of the subversive leaks that undermined his opponents, that he might maintain his completely honest denial if questioned about them. But Enjolras one morning, gazing out the window in one of those fits of apparent abstraction, had remarked upon Thiers' peculiar behaviour at a state banquet the night before. "It would," he observed, "make a fine subject for a column by Old Man Jacques."

Grantaire had looked at him sharply, but Enjolras remained gazing out the window, face slightly angled towards his colleague, the blue eyes completely free of guile.  


Aside from all that, there was something else. Something that he hesitated to put a name to, fearful that he was misinterpreting Enjolras. It might be that his friend, so untutored and inexperienced in the subtle communication of romantic attraction, did not realise that he was giving Grantaire what could be construed – or misconstrued – as signifiers. It had come to him only recently, as quite as a surprise, how comfortable they were in close proximity to each other's person. Enjolras' ease in resting a hand on his shoulder, Grantaire leaning over him to point out a pertinent phrase in a decree. And those looks he sometimes surprised on Enjolras' features, regarding him as if puzzling something out, and then coming to himself with a start.

Grantaire had felt this tension before, sensing the pull between two people, as well as the reticence as each waited for a clear signal from the other. It was a dance where one was never sure where one stood, and what one risked or stood to gain. 

His own feelings towards Enjolras had been always been confused in regard to the question of attraction. He knew himself to be an unnatural – had known since his sexual initiation as a young artist's apprentice, when he had been introduced to others who shared what he had, as a confused young adolescent in a small market town, thought were deviant tendencies. The physical attraction had been immediate when he was introduced to Enjolras by Courfeyrac – an intense desire to know him sexually, to learn the texture and pressure of those lips, the feel of that body pressed to his own. Enjolras' disinterest in women had given Grantaire some hope that he might share his own inclinations – not because he ever expected to bed him (such an exquisite creature could find far more congenial company than a man whose appeal certainly did not lie in his looks, and it was too much to hope his tastes ran in the direction of the unrefined), but out of a more obscure desire to know that they had at least that in common. He had soon realised that Enjolras was equally indifferent to men – though it seemed a crime, all that beauty was invested in a being as sexually disinclined as an Artemis or Athena. In mythology, he would have been placed on earth to drive would-be lovers to madness by his cold indifference.

Within weeks of drifting into the circle of the ABC, that immediate lust and attraction had become inextricably confused with something else. Alongside the desire of the body was an attraction that, in its way, was even more elemental. A profound admiration for the purity of his ideals and the soaring of Enjolras' soul. The precise mechanics of the ideals did not matter at all – what was it to him whether Enjolras was the spirit of 1789 or 1793, or by what exact processes he intended to introduce reforms of the press? It was the act of belief itself, the intense passion directed at something not physical or limited to an individual being, but expanding to a broad horizon. In the light of Enjolras' faith, felt himself caught up, breathless, and taken to a higher, rarefied plane where he might see vast vistas that opened before him. The exact forms he could not discern, but the simple act of Enjolras' belief, with an intensity that must shatter obstacles, filled him like liquid light.

Countering that, his fantasies were furtive, lewd things of which he was ashamed. Sometimes at night, he would stroke himself to a desperate, sweaty climax. The phantasm of his fantasies had Enjolras' face and Enjolras' body, but the words he spoke with – short words of harsh, brute carnality – were not those of Enjolras. He could imagine a sexual coupling out of lust and a need for release, a struggle of power where Enjolras either sought to dominate or be dominated, but what he could not imagine was any tenderness between them, any love. There was simply no commonality on which to base it, only a needy desire on the part of one and a remote pity on the part of the other. At no point did they meet, or occupy the same world.

And after one of those nights, when next he saw Enjolras – with that angel's face and those angel's eyes, with that cold, remote perfection of form and his pure passion of conviction – he would feel so ashamed he could hardly lift his eyes to look at him, remembering the fantasy creature he had created and used in his desperate need. No matter how he told himself that it was simply a harmless game that did not hurt the object of his desire in the slightest, he felt somehow that he had used the man he loved in a dishonourable way.

Now something had changed. There was no longer the sharp dichotomy of loving the remote ideal and lusting after the man. The harsh lines were blurred. Enjolras did not disdain him any longer.

And with that came a shift of perspective, a new line of thought on their past history. Enjolras had always so harshly rejected him, so then why...

Why had he given Grantaire those chances? Why, when all reason was against it, had he trusted Grantaire with opportunities when Grantaire had asked for them? He had seen the look on Combeferre's face the day Grantaire had volunteered to go to the Barrière du Maine – and Combeferre had been quite right. Why, indeed, had Enjolras allowed him to remain at their gatherings at all? At the time, half lost in a haze of drink and the melancholy that alternated with his exuberant high spirits, he had not thought much about it at all, finding it too painful a recollection of the squandering of chances that had characterised his existence to date, too painful to think about. But now, in light of this strange intimacy that had sprung up between them –

"Grantaire."

Grantaire came sharply to himself, and became aware he was still gazing at the top of Enjolras' head where it was bent over the books.

"You have," Enjolras continued, "sat there looking at me for quite five minutes by the clock." He finished writing his sentence, blotted the paper, and then looked at Grantaire. "Is there something you wish to say to me?"

"Ah. Well, I..."

Did he have anything to say to Enjolras? How did one broach this subject? Every time he had been with another man, the liaison – either a one-night tryst or a comfortable arrangement of weeks or months – it had commenced under entirely different circumstances. There were certain places one frequented, or certain cues of words or expression one used. There was a common language that was understood in its nuances by those who shared it.

"I..."

He shifted uncomfortably, his thoughts darting and erratic, measuring the gulf that stood before him, wondering if he dared the bound. For a moment it hung in the balance.

"No – I...just wool gathering. Do you have that copy of civil procedures..."

He reached for his pen and ink pot with fumbling hands, eyes firmly on the books and papers and paraphernalia, so he need not look at Enjolras. It was not worth the risk, whatever latent response he had half-read. Better regret than the potential to destroy what was solid, what already existed.

He heard Enjolras shift, the soft creak of the chair's leather and wood as he rose, and became quiet, his hands falling short of the pen – God, had Enjolras read his expression? No, he couldn't know, he could not be so perceptive -

He stilled absolutely when he felt Enjolras draw close to him, then the shock of Enjolras' hand on his cheek. It was always startling when one touched a marble statue, when the smooth appearance of flesh was revealed to be cold stone rather than the expected human softness and warmth. With Enjolras, the effect was the opposite – that cool, smooth, marble flesh was warm. He looked up to meet a serious, intent gaze.

"I had thought as much," Enjolras said. "We find our home in Agape and Eros, not Philia." He smiled, bent like a graceful bough, and kissed Grantaire firmly on the lips.  


Grantaire, when he regained his senses, was quite sure that for several moments altogether he was absolutely bereft of conscious thought. Laura was not meant to throw her arms around Petrach. Beatrice did not stoop to kiss Dante. Pothos was not simply supplanted by Anteros in the affairs of men as seasons changed. But he returned rapidly to himself when Enjolras pulled away abruptly in confusion – perhaps the first time Grantaire could recall seeing him absolutely off balance. He backed rapidly away from Grantaire, almost clumsy in his movements.

"I'm sorry," he said, the softness of his voice coupled with a sad expression and a gaze that would not meet Grantaire’s. "It is quite unforgivable…I did not mean…I misunderstood. I appreciate that you may wish to hand in your resignation –"

"No no no no no!" Grantaire cried, leaping to his feet and throwing his arms around Enjolras, pulling him in for a tight embrace. "Oh, God," he whispered in the other man’s ear, the words a gasped and almost desperate exhalation. "It's – God, I do love you."

Further explanation was, for that moment, quite unnecessary.


	6. The non-idyllic idyll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is much discover even in that which is familiar to us

A spring idyll would have been lovely – long strolls on the boulevards beneath the blooming horse-chestnut trees, picnics out along the Champs-Élysées, embraces beneath the, kisses and flowers, wine and sunshine. But it was winter, and their work on the constitutional debates rapidly reaching its denouement, with the final voting in the Chamber of Deputies due to take place at the end of January. 

Still, Grantaire could dispense with flowers and the sunshine as long as Enjolras came to call in the morning, greeted him with a kiss, and walked with him into the Tuileries under the grey skies. He had no need of bucolic picnics in the Luxumbourg if he might be spared a few moments to find bread and cheese for a meal at some time in the afternoon, and persuade Enjolras to leave his notes for half an hour so they might sit by the stove, eat and talk. 

These days were a discovery for him. He had thought he knew Enjolras intimately – years of close observation, and he could have identified every waistcoat in his wardrobe and exactly how Enjolras took his coffee. Every vocal nuance of his speech was dear to him, and the curves and planes of his face were more familiar to Grantaire than his own. In the old Musain days, had anyone charged him with not caring for Enjolras' ideals, he would have indignantly responded that he cared for Enjolras as man and not an idea. 

Now, however, to his surprise, he discovered how little he really did know about his companion. Some assumptions were correct – yes, Enjolras was a virgin (as he himself unblushingly confirmed), which had helped to slow the process of deepening their relationship; although to his delight their kisses often strayed from the chaste. Other details it had never occurred to him to ask, for example his family circumstances. Beyond the fact his father was wealthy, he did not even know from where in the Midi Enjolras had sprung. 

"The family home is near Le-Puy-en-Velay," Enjolras told him when he asked. They were seated by the window in Enjolras' rooms one quiet Sunday morning. Grantaire had dragged a chaise lounge beneath the tall frame, throwing the shutters back, so that they might sit in the winter sunlight. Enjolras' voice had an almost a dreamy quality to, as if it came from far away - perhaps those distant southern climes. His head reclined on Grantaire’s shoulder, and Grantaire was very conscious of its relaxed weight, of the reciprocal small gestures, small touches. They were so close that Grantaire could feel the movement of Enjolras' jaw as he spoke, and every exhalation of his slow, relaxed breathing. "Although we spent much time travelling for my father's business, with seasons in Paris and summers on the Mediterranean coast where he had property in Marseilles and Montpellier. 

"My earliest memory is of the Chapel Saint-Michel d'Aiguilhe, perched on a rocky pinnacle overlooking the town, as if those who built it strove to place it closer to God. I was exhilarated by that lofty soaring, but thought it strange – why had they put it so far above us? My father said it was because it was God's house, not man's." 

"Did you want to ascend, or did you wish to pull it down to earth?" Grantaire asked, seeing so very clearly a child with his head thrown back, seeking the hard mountain summit. 

"I wished for us all to scale those heights – but, in the spirit of religious analogy about the winding upward path, it was a steep climb. There was a village blacksmith...I used to sneak away to see him, slipping away from my tutors in an idle hour. He had been in the Revolutionary Army, you see, and he knew all the old songs and stories. He hummed Ça Ira as he worked, or the Carmagnole. He was not always liked or trusted, and some of the old 

Catholic families refused to do business with him. My father thought he belonged in prison, and could not understand why he hadn't been done away with... But I could sit for hours while he worked at the forge and told me about those days. He still had a few decrees that had been issued by the Convention, and he allowed me to read them." Enjolras was silent for a few moments, and Grantaire again had a startlingly clear image of a young Enjolras, a child who was anything but childish, all large solemn eyes and serious "why?" questions. 

"And you, Grantaire?" Enjolras resumed. "You come from Carcassonne, do you not?" 

Grantaire sighed, remembering. "Yes – a fortified city that has been rotting ever since the Emperor decided it was surplus to his defense requirements. My father was a wool merchant, and I was more disappointing to him than even the downturn in demand for uniforms following the Second Treaty of Paris." Gently prompted, Grantaire found himself talking about that grim, formidable man who had never understood the son who showed a greater predilection for paints and brushes than he did for mathematical sums. 

Even more surprising than the knowledge of how much he had yet to learn about Enjolras, was the sudden shift in perspective involved in learning what Enjolras thought about him. These revelations were slow, each of them discovering the other by degrees. 

"I could not have asked you directly – I would not have known how," Enjolras explained one day. He seemed fascinated by Grantaire's hands, holding them in his own, stroking his fingers along the knuckles. Grantaire could see only the contrast between them – it seemed to sum up their physical polarities of elegance and vulgarity to see their hands in such proximity – but Enjolras seemed to see something else, and it completely had his attention. "And it would have been wrong. You work for me, and to put you in a position where you must either refuse or accept and risk so much with either choice...you would have been right to resent me for it. It would have been a grotesque abuse of my position, and I am only glad that my impulsive gesture was not given the response it deserved." 

"To put me in a position of refusal? Enjolras, are you quite as blind as you are beautiful? Who could ever refuse you?" 

"I've never asked and thus never risked such a rejection," Enjolras frowned. "But I would never assume. It would be the very depth of arrogance to believe that by virtue of birth, wealth or appearance I had some sort of…of…"

"Droit de seigneur over your friends and staff?" Grantaire could not resist supplying. Enjolras laughed and was a little less serious. 

"There are many assumptions that come with my estate," he continued. "I had to learn not to hear the comments on my appearance, on my supposed tastes or desires or lack of them. It seemed my person was common property." 

"I had no idea you were even aware of such things," Grantaire said, surprised. As far back as he could recall, Enjolras had been a distantly aloof young man who never deigned to acknowledge personal comments on his looks or the little of his life that was not public. At first he had assumed it was the affectation of not hearing, but eventually he came to believe that Enjolras really did not hear such background chatter at all. 

"How could I acknowledge them? It is revolting to hear a wealthy man complain of the boredom of his excessive leisure hours when others starve, and it would be repulsive to hear a man complain that others comment to excess upon his looks, or that he is burdened by his wealth. To do so would be to insult those who endure far more immediate and tangible troubles, and also to give undue weight to the superficial." 

It was, Grantaire had to admit, an angle he had never considered, quite unburdened as he was by anything approaching good looks or substantial wealth. 

"Are these an artist's hands?" Enjolras asked suddenly. "I have heard of such things, but have never understood." 

Grantaire's attention returned to their interlaced fingers. "No," he chuckled gruffly. "These are stubby fingers, and anyone with pretensions to reading a career in them would more readily assume they steered a plow rather than a brush. Your hands are the ones with the sensitive look thought right for one of artistic genius." 

"And yet I know nothing of painting," Enjolras smiled. 

________________________________________

Enjolras was restless the day after the voting. They had won, albeit not a victory unfettered with compromise, and now it was to be taken to the people. Caunes had told Enjolras and Grantaire to take a moment or two for themselves before the battles ahead in the upcoming plebiscite. 

"Go home, boys. There's nothing more to be done here – we can tidy up the last loose ends in the sub-committees, and Arago's secretary is already with the typesetters. You've earned a free afternoon." Grantaire had observed that the former writer and publisher turned Deputy had an almost paternal affection for his assistant – his only son, who had been one of Enjolras' associates, had died in 1830 during some extraordinary attempt by the Amis du Peuple to set up a Belgian Republic, and some of that loss had translated into a fatherly feeling towards Enjolras. 

Grantaire was all for taking up the suggestion, if only to try and dissipate some of the restless energy he could sense was charging through Enjolras, making him taut and tightly wound. But Enjolras seemed lost in thought after Caunes left, pacing their room restlessly. Suddenly he looked up at Grantaire, who had half believed his presence had been forgotten. 

"Grantaire – there was a move you used when we were fighting in June." 

"Which one – bashing in that guardsman's head with a bottle?" 

"No...a Savate move. It looked like a variation on the high whip kick – would you show it to me?" 

"Here?" Grantaire grinned. A tussle in their office would be an entertaining diversion. 

"Charles Lecour is training at Casseaux's today – he has brought in some interesting variations, adapting chausson techniques, and has invited me to call. Shall we?" 

"By all means," Grantaire said enthusiastically. He had not done any Savate since the street fighting, and the thought of sparring with Enjolras – in lieu of other interesting possibilities for physical activity, and given Enjolras' restlessness there was not much chance of those – was intriguing. "Are you going to demonstrate any of those eye gouging moves you were using for Casseaux, while you're at it?" he asked cheekily. "I'm sure he'd find them edifying." 

"I think he believes I'm quite savage enough offering confirmation of that opinion," Enjolras smiled. 

"You could teach a Marseilles sailor a thing or two about gouging and grappling," Grantaire said, with boundless affection. 

"Where do you think I learned how to do those moves? They don't teach them at Casseaux's" Enjolras held open the door for Grantaire, and followed him out. 

________________________________________

It was nearly two hours before Enjolras finally noticed that Grantaire was beginning to flag. They had begun well, and Grantaire had even managed to score a palpable hit or two against Enjolras. Unfortunately, though, many months and many bottles worth of neglecting his fitness had ensured that Grantaire's stamina was not of the first order, and Enjolras, discerning this, called their last match. He was still alight with enthusiasm and talking rapidly to Grantaire as they discarded their borrowed clothes and washed down, analysing and questioning. 

Grantaire, whose heart rate took a while to settle and who was awkwardly conscious that he had lightly strained a hamstring that would be very sore for the next day or two once he cooled down, was suddenly painfully aware of just how damned erotic Enjolras looked. His hair was in disarray, hanging in his eyes and damp with sweat at the roots, his normally pale skin flushed with exercise and his breathing heavier than usual. It was all too easy to imagine the same effects from other forms of physical exertion. 

Enjolras linked a companionable arm in his as they left the studio, and Grantaire was acutely resentful of the bounds of propriety that meant he could not press an arm around that slim waist as they walked the streets. It seemed natural, though, that they return to Enjolras' apartment. Evidently the activity had aroused something in Enjolras akin to what it inspired in Grantaire, as once they were in the door his hands were on Grantaire's shoulders and his lips on Grantaire's own. The kiss was deeper than those they had hitherto shared, open mouthed and intimate. When Enjolras broke away it was to pull off Grantaire's collar and nuzzle his neck, his arms around Grantaire, pulling him tightly to press body to body. 

It was some time before the cold drove them closer to the stove, but once they began to cool down after their exercise they chilled rapidly. Enjolras had noticed the slight limp now that the hamstring had begun to really ache, and had brought Grantaire a blanket to drape over his legs. He then took a seat and looked at Grantaire with a head tilted slightly to the side in curious regard. 

"Do you know, it was at Casseaux's that I saw you for the second time." 

"Really? I don't remember that – I thought we met first in the Gardens and then in the Musain when Courfeyrac brought me there." 

"I don't think you saw me. You were sparring on the floor at the time – I recognised you and stopped to watch." He smiled. "You were magnificent." 

This was a bit disorientating. Enjolras had observed him? 

"I had never seen anything like it. You had this wonderful ease with your body – there was something so controlled in how you moved, but with a driving force and power behind it…and you were tossing witticisms at your partner between blows. There were puns, talk of canes and canards, and wings, and whimsical fancy, all with you hardly needing to catch a breath. I did not know what it was that I felt, only that you were in my mind long after I'd left the studio. I asked Courfeyrac to bring you to the Musain." 

"You…it was you who asked Courfeyrac to bring me to the Musain?" 

Enjolras nodded. "He wasn't sure it was the best of ideas – he told me that you leaned towards libertinism, knew more of hedonism than Hébert, and had no known fixed political opinions. I thought you were so brilliant – so clever – that surely you must be swayed to our point of view. I did not recognise at the time any other motivation in my action, although of course now I concede that there might have been something more obscure behind my thoughts." 

Grantaire felt his heart sink a little sadly at the memory of what happened next. 

"And then I got drunk at the meeting." 

Enjolras nodded. 

"But you let me return?" 

"I thought it might be an aberration. After all, other members of the Amis drank as well. It was not something I really understood, but I had observed men do sometimes take wine excessively when they are nervous. I had hoped it was something like that…"

Grantaire laughed bitterly. "How disappointed you must have been to find it the rule and not the exception!" 

"In those days, it was still the exception," Enjolras said quietly. "You still boxed then, as I remember, and Bâton français. And Prouvaire told me you had even exhibited one or two of your works. You…confused me. Your wit was dazzling, but I could find no fixed purpose in your speech – it was as if you drank to be amusing, to entertain your companions, and you simply cobbled disparate ideas together because they sounded well, abandoning one position for another if anyone challenged you, taking the posture of the cynic to underpin it all. Criticism I could understand, but you offered nothing coherent – just mockery." 

"That is…not far off. The only reason I was tolerated by the Amis is because I was a good companion. My role was Master of Ceremonies. I used to drink to be sociable. Later, as that was why they enjoyed my continued presence, I drank to be amusing. The words came easier 

with liquor to tie them together." And it blurred my vision so that I might not see the disapproval in your eyes, he added in thought. 

"A court jester" Enjolras's voice was softer still. "Is that what you thought we saw in you? Grantaire…you do know that I sometimes find the motives of other men to be obscure. Combeferre tells me I lack an empathy with how others are in their daily lives – good, bad and indifferent. He tells me that I do not live in the world enough, and that I have a tendency to filter my perceptions through an idealised view as the light comes in through stained glass windows. I have sometimes been aware that there is something missing in my nature – an understanding of my fellow man. I must know – do I bear responsibility for what happened? Did my disappointment colour my response to you?" 

"Did you drive me to drink, do you mean? Hardly." He thought carefully, as more explanation was required. "I will admit that I have blamed you at times, but never directly. I wanted something from you, but I did not know what. I needed something but…I could not even tell myself what it was. You tolerated me beyond my deserts, you gave me chances that I did not know what to do with. I was not fit to be in the same room – I wish I could serve you better –"

"Don't say that!" Grantaire was a little shaken by the ferocity – he had almost thought Enjolras had subsided into mildness of late, with all that inherent, farouche power tamed and tempered by the necessities of translating ideas into governance. Now his tone was fiercely intense. "You are not to serve me. How could you think that – of either yourself or of me?" 

"Enjolras," he soothed, trying to lighten the tone of the exchange that he feared had wandered into dangerous waters, "to love someone is to want to do things for them – to serve them…"

But Enjolras would have none of it. 

'It is a form of social contract, yes – we agree to be bound to each other, but not in a relationship that puts us on the footing of one superior to the other. If you know nothing else of me, you must know this: as I would not be a slave, so I would not be a master. Do you understand?" 

"I think…" Grantaire struggled. Why did Enjolras have to have such a disconcerting gaze? The implacable edge hidden behind the graces with which nature had endowed him. He looked at Grantaire searchingly, and then softened slightly. 

"It has been a barrier to us," he said. "I wish I had spoken of it long ago…but my awareness of you crept up on me gradually, and it was yoked to my confusion about why I should care so for you. You were servile, and I could not bear it – to see you humble yourself. Do you remember you begged to do something to serve me, even to blacking my boots? "

"I wanted to find some way – any way – to please you." 

"But you could not do anything that truly mattered to me. What use had I for someone abasing themselves before me? All I could offer such a man was pity. I wanted someone who marched with me, who understood the inherent dignity of man – someone who stood by my side, not who crawled at my feet. Not when I – he –" He broke off the passionate flow of words abruptly. 

"Did you know…even then…" Grantaire began tentatively. Enjolras flushed slightly and looked away. 

"That day you volunteered to go to the Barrière du Maine…do you know why I trusted you that day?" 

"I haven't an idea why you put such misplaced faith in me." 

"Because you told me I was ungrateful." 

Grantaire blinked, and then began to laugh. 

"It's true!" Enjolras insisted. "I changed my mind in that moment when you spoke because you weren't imploring me, you weren't begging, you weren't servile at all. Indeed, you sounded almost indignant." 

Grantaire couldn't help it – he reached out and stroked Enjolras' hair, then tugged him into his arms for a tighter embrace. 

"I think…at last…I begin to understand you a little better." 

Enjolras sighed, putting his arms around his lover's waist. "It was like seeing two beings before me – one a man of intelligence, who could fight with courage and daring, who could challenge and defy. Who had such tremendous potential. The other was a dissipated being, one who squandered opportunities, who had picked over ideas and ideals and ground them to nothing, and who mocked those who dared to have purpose and belief. I could hardly reconcile them, and I was frustrated to the point of anger. Worse still, you proclaimed a belief in me. How could you believe in me when you rejected everything that made me who I am, and everything that matters to me?" 

"Everything but love." 

Enjolras tightened his grip a little. 

"You are right. Love is the one thing of worth of which I knew you were capable. Even at the nadir of our conflict, when it seemed to me you were incapable of thinking, willing, believing or even of living or dying, I never doubted your ability to love." 

They held each other silently. Grantaire felt strangely exhilarated. Now, at last, he could begin to see himself as Enjolras had seen him – not, as he had previously assumed, as a worm to be trodden under foot, something insignificant or mildly inconvenient to be swept aside in the greater march of progress, but as someone who had confused Enjolras, and even unwittingly wounded him even as Enjolras had hurt Grantaire in their mutual misunderstandings and incomprehension. 

"And now?" he breathed into Enjolras' hair. 

"Now we are free to start again. Somehow…we found each other." 

"Free." Grantaire repeated, closing his eyes. He knew an almost complete happiness. 

Then he chuckled slightly. 

"You do know I wasn't entirely serious about blacking your boots, don't you?" 


	7. Love among the ruins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Grantaire steer perilously close to domesticity in their post-revolutionary world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Grantaire stumble upon the potential for domestic bliss in a neighbourhood that owes much to Théophile Gautier and Gérard de Nerval.

The rooms were gloomy and dark when they emerged from the narrower and even murkier confines of the stairway. Pieces of fallen plaster crunched beneath Enjolras' feet as he made his way across to the tall, lozenge shaped windows and attempted to open the shutters. They resisted, only giving way suddenly with a jerk and a puff of dust. Open, they made only a little improvement, as the windows – long coated with coal dust and grime – admitted little of the winter light that struggled into the dead end that was the Impasse du Doyenné, a small side street between the Comédie-Française and the Seine.

Grantaire forced up one of the sash windows to look out – and was met with a rather unprepossessing view of the narrow street, deteriorating facades on the buildings, and a ruined church diagonally opposite. The general effect was completed by the waste ground in the shadow of the Louvre, still littered with the large blocks of builders' stone that had been left scattered after the Emperor's project to complete that formidable structure.

"Well…" he said dubiously, "at least the broken vaulting of the church will provide an interesting prospect by moonlight…and I'm sure that, come summer, that block of land will yield a formidable crop of nettles, to complete the feel of gothic ruin…"

But Enjolras was already creating an air of purposeful industry in the room, busily opening all the windows and doors, and tapping the walls where the plaster seemed particularly cracked.

"I've had it surveyed," he was saying, "and the structure is sound enough. There's solid stone under the plaster and very little of the woodwork has been affected by rot. The floorboards are solid."

Grantaire kicked aside the remains of a mouldering rug, watching the pill bugs underneath roll into balls or crawl for the shelter so abruptly removed, then looked up at the heavily carved woodwork now more visible in the dimmer corners of the room and high wainscotting. It would, he thought, be rather a pity to have cleared it all out, as it looked like rather good work.

The main salon in which they now stood was nearly perfectly proportioned, with that love of mathematical symmetry so evident in the previous century. Between the tall windows old bevelled mirrors in desperate need of re-silvering reflected back the darkness under a layer of dust, where they had once reflected the chandeliers and sconces. Above the doors were painted porcelain plaques, all floral and pastoral scenes. The rose marble fireplace was graced with a mural depicting Artemis – no doubt modelled on the bewitching mistress of the original owner, judging from her decidedly unchaste smile – framed with gilded swags of flowers and leaves.

Grantaire was inclined to ruminate on the poetry of decay, but Enjolras was being briskly businesslike and efficient.

"The plasterers start work tomorrow," Enjolras explained, "as soon as the chimneys have all been swept. Once the floors are cleaned I'll bring in a few floor coverings that will help stop the draughts until we can have everything re-caulked. It will take some time to finish the restoration, I understand, but I don't have much in the way of personal belongings – the books can be stored until I need them, and the contractors have agreed to work around us. I should like to move in sooner rather than later."

"Us?" Grantaire was brought up sharply. "Which...us?"

"If you agree, that is" Enjolras said with a smile. "I don't wish to present the decision as a fait accompli – it is entirely up to you – but...if you wish, I would like you to join me here." He stopped and circled slowly, as if suddenly sensible that his was, on the surface of it, not the most prepossessing of offers. "It will improve with work, of course."

"I..." Grantaire gulped a bit for air. "Won't it be seen as...compromising?"

"There is more than one bedchamber. I do not choose to lie about who occupies which room, but nor do I see a need to discuss it with anyone outside." He held a hand to Grantaire. "Let anyone who cares guess who resides in which bed, if it is of any interest to them. But I greatly desire to have you share my rooms...as you now share my life."

Grantaire felt that he should give it some thought. Or rather, told himself that he should. Such arrangements were, he was under the impression, not to be entered into lightly. But the part of hesitant subject to be wooed sat as ill with him as it did with his lover, and to question Enjolras’ sincerity, in this as in anything, was impossible. Rightly or wrongly, he was sincere. "Of course," Grantaire responded, taking his hand. 

It was that simple. And even as he uttered it, he realised how absurdly easy it would be. He hardly even needed to give notice to his current landlord – a week, and then he would be move in with Enjolras. Or if it came to it, he’d throw his bond over and be there tomorrow.

"I have finalised the negations for the purchase of this building and those adjacent," Enjolras said, moving away again, gaze searching out the details of the room with an assessing gaze. "If renewal is to start, why not here?" This, Grantaire knew, was something of a pet project for Enjolras, Combeferre and Feuilly – the idea of regenerating some of the areas of Paris that had been in decay since the Revolution. "We can take these apartments on the first floor, and lease the rest to working families at a fair, honourable rate. If successful, it may bring investment to the other properties in the surrounds. I'd like it to spread out to those condemned buildings in the rue du Musée."

"Aren't you afraid that such close proximity to the Comédie- Française and the Palais-Royal will bring the workers into moral danger?" Grantaire teased.

"If we look after the welfare of their bodies and provide them with education and the chance of employment, then I believe that their morals will take care of themselves" Enjolras responded. Grantaire was still groping to comprehend what Enjolras had just asked him – the idea of actually living together - but Enjolras had already moved on, expanding on his plans. "I have organised for a simple kitchen range to be installed…it will take some time to update the heating arrangements, but until then there are large fireplaces to be used." He snapped his fingers, a thought occurring to him. "Firewood? We'll need that, won't we? And coal for the kitchen. I must arrange a supply…"

"You – we – will need a housekeeper. Someone to oversee all these domestic arrangements." Grantaire knew full well that Enjolras' grasp of such details, practical though he was, was rather tenuous. He had come from a family in which the running of a household was firmly the province of women and the staff, and his rooming arrangements when he moved on to the Sorbonne had been simple, his needs attended to by the concierge and maids. This was a rather larger enterprise.

"I have already engaged one," Enjolras said, to his surprise. "Do you recall Jean Hulot?"

"Of course." He was one of the Amis, killed in June during an early assault on their barricade.

"He was a support for his mother, who is now in financial distress. You know that Combeferre and I are looking to provide some pension for the dependents of those killed in the fighting, but I have also offered her a place here and she has accepted…ah. Have I gone ahead and made too many arrangements without consulting you first? Once I started, it seemed a natural progression, and I do hate to leave things unresolved."

Grantaire laughed.

"I'm no more experienced than you in engaging staff and running a household! Possibly less so…or possibly not, given your complete and deplorable ignorance on how one’s dining table should be supplied. You’d be taken advantage of by every tradesman and stock your cellars with vinegar for table wine and sparrows for ortolans. Your linen and wardrobe don’t bear thinking about. I'm sure Mme Hulot will do well."

Enjolras turned away from where he was dubiously swinging a door back and forward, testing the hinges, and came to stand by Grantaire's side.

"You truly do not object to me going ahead and taking this step?"

"I am still in that stage of infatuation that you could propose a visit to a soapbubble kingdom in the clouds and I'd pack my bags," Grantaire said. "I know you're accustomed to doing things by the shortest route possible…but -” it was the gentlest of reprimands, if that - “you are learning to include me in your plans."

"It is true," Enjolras agreed. "Having been unconventional for so long, it is an odd thing to emerge out of the shadows and engage in a more conventional daily round. And of course I have never been in any sort of…domestic arrangement with another person, not unless I am to include my childhood and schooling."

"It doesn't count." Grantaire said, drawing close, reaching out for that reassuring caress of Enjolras' hair, as much as was visible between his greatcoat and his hat, a re-affirmation that such intimate touches were possible. "This is different. For both of us."

Enjolras nodded, and Grantaire wondered which direction the conversation would take – back towards plasterers and housekeepers, or towards the question that was starting to loom large in his mind and, he was quite sure, in that of his partner.

Perhaps it was an odd thing that Grantaire felt few reservations in regards to sexual congress with Enjolras. The Enjolras he had first come to know had been fiercely chaste, but not, it seemed, out of fear or a prudish distaste for something to be disdained as base animal passion. He cared little about the exploits of his friends, and tales of mistresses and misadventures drew neither censure nor applause from him. All the energies that might have been channelled elsewhere, including the sexual instinct, had been subverted and directed towards his cause, another offering to add to entirety of his being given over to that higher end, leaving little to nothing personal outside of that. His body was simply another instrument to use for those purposes, just as his mind and his will were honed and developed to that end.

That was one of the changes that had taken place with the advent of the Republic. Grantaire, having followed with suspicious wonder the changes in his own life, had also begun to observe and understand the subtle alteration in the man he loved. In response to changed circumstances, Enjolras had shifted to a longer vision, an understanding that with the immediate objective achieved the ideal still loomed far distant and would be the work of a lifetime. Some of his harsher edges had softened with the adoption of that perspective, just as his vision had broadened from the narrow, intense sphere of France to take in a broadly progressive view of humanity. Grantaire could see him sounding out his passage as cautiously as a ship in an uncharted harbour, venturing into the world of the personal, intimate, and individual.

And it was here that Grantaire entered in, he now realised. Not as an appendage to this new life, but an integral part of it. He would have willingly subsumed himself in Enjolras' life, but the words his beloved had spoken mere days ago about subservience were an obstinate barrier to that. Enjolras wanted a partner, not a subject. 

Emerging from worship was all the more difficult when that long-cultivated adoration seemed a natural default position. It did not yet feel entirely right to look directly at Enjolras rather than up to him.

That adjustment caused Grantaire more anxiety than the technical process of lovemaking. There was a physical ease with each other that was reassuring – Enjolras' sureness in his body, coupled with the awareness he had shown of Grantaire when they sparred and when they kissed, left him with some confidence that they would pass through the stage of awkwardness engendered by Enjolras' inexperience as quickly as might be hoped. In the physical, he had a rare confidence.

"We will make a home here," Enjolras said, as if he followed the trend of Grantaire's thoughts. "And I do not expect our progress together to be without its setbacks."  
The corners of his mouth quirked up in a smile. "Two such thoroughly unconventional beings as we are."

"Redeeming something from the ruin of the past?"

"Clearing away that which is rotten, using the past and all its lessons to give us a frame and foundation for the future."

"There are flaws in your analogy-" Grantaire started with a laugh. "You're attempting to do more than remodel the ruins of the ancien régime..."

"Probably – given time, I could better turn the imagery to better purpose. Let it suffice to say that it is in our hands now, and what we make of it is up to us."

"Will you have the murals and plaques painted over?" Grantaire asked suddenly. Enjolras looked at them as if he were aware of them for the first time.

"I thought yes – they're not important, are they?"

Grantaire snorted. "You, for an educated man, can be such a philistine. You might not have called for the destruction of the Château de Chantilly, but you wouldn’t lift a finger to save it. Those are not particularly large mould stains, Enjolras. Look close and see their beauty. The many-hours labor of some unknown artist –"

"- And the product of a rich man's purse. Very well, I shall instruct the plasterers and painters to work around them."

"They'll need some restoration..." Grantaire said thoughtfully, and wondered what they might look like with a little less Fragonard and a little more Delacroix. He'd just have to keep the results from Combeferre until they were complete, as their friend knew far too much about art to resist denouncing it as sacrilege. And at the thought he smiled, seeing the years and scenes that would come to pass in this room.

They stood there amid the dust, cobwebs and fallen plaster, their hands finding each other's.


	8. The Chymical Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marius and Cosette's marriage ceremony leads Grantaire's thoughts to the Alchemical Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Amis at Marius and Cosette's wedding - because who hasn't wanted to see that? The concept of the Alchemical Wedding (or, in more archaic terms, the Chymical Wedding) is an old staple of alchemy, and I suspect would have appealed to the Frenetic Romantics.

Their rooms, thanks to the predictable feet-dragging of the tradesmen, were not ready for occupation until Mardi Gras day itself, and Grantaire and Enjolras spent the morning of Marius' wedding overseeing the arrival of what sparse furnishings they possessed between them. It was a day of showers, and the canvas over their moving carts had not kept everything dry. There was plenty of mud and water tracked in with their possessions, and Mme. Hulot whisked between the men and their burdens, tsking over the newly cleaned floors being dirtied again. In the chaos they were nearly late changing – Grantaire had to towel dry their hair where the water had soaked in every time they stepped out into the rain, and then had to persuade Enjolras to wear his blue coat and dove grey pants, probably the closest thing to _de rigueur_ attire for a wedding that he owned. His shoes needed blacking, but no doubt by the time they got to the church they'd be in a state anyway from the condition of the roads.

Grantaire took some care dressing, eyeing himself critically in the speckled mirror over his shaving stand (another item to add to the list – re-silvering or replacing mirrors). No amount of care could render his features more handsome, he knew. Even freshly shaven he gave the impression of a man with a late afternoon shadow on his jaw, his nose was hardly less bulbous and red since he had reduced his drinking, and his brows were heavy. He had long ago discovered – back when he had cared about such things – that his hair could not hold a curl, and would insist on hanging unfashionably straight and often in his eyes, though he took care now to part it to the side and brush it back behind his ears. A beard might improve his chin, though…not one of those fringes that edged the face like the beard of a mussel, or anything to compete with Borel, Devéria or Bahorel (the only serious beards to be found in the Latin Quarter), but one of those little fashionable tufts on the chin that gave one a certain air, as of a Medieval Spanish grandee or…or…well, something exotic.

And tailoring, as Courfeyrac so often reminded him, could hide any multitude of sins. He straightened the front of his double-breasted tailcoat over his waistcoat with its acanthus leaf curlicues, and turned to eye the back of the swallows' tails critically. Then he grinned ruefully – all this effort for a man who would likely notice little and care even less. But Grantaire was not entirely without vanity himself, and did remember a time when he had made such efforts…back when he had a trimmer figure, one that helped to make up for the other physical gifts which nature had so stingily refused to bestow on him.

"Are you ready?" Enjolras asked from the door. "I thought we'd walk – the crowds and the traffic will hardly move in this rain, and all the fiacres will be taken."

"No rush – the wedding procession will be coming all the way from St-Germain and competing with the festive throngs, and if they'll make it on time then I'm the Marquis de Sade's grandson."

They left on foot, Enjolras giving instructions to Mme. Hulot not to wait up for their return. Grantaire was grateful that Combeferre was not of Prouvaire's mind about the objectionable Bourgeois associations of umbrellas for men, and had thought to bring them two that morning when he was helping with Enjolras' bags.

________________________________________

Grantaire, thorough-going skeptic though he was, had something of an affection for churches with all their mysteries, incense and somber serenity, and St-Paul-St-Louis was no exception. He trailed Enjolras up the nave, passing the Romanesque arches that flanked them on either side, until they were almost directly underneath the great dome that admitted light in from its encircling high arched windows. Head thrown back to look up at all that lofty soaring, he moved through the haze of air heavy with the perfume of the censer and the flowers that lightened the deeper recesses and bedecked the altar. The gloom of the day had made the interior rather shadowy, but everywhere was the glow of candles, some of them suspended in great ring chandeliers from the ceiling, casting a soft warm light over the dark wood of the pews and the gaily dressed occupants. Some of these, he saw, turned, noted, and muttered to each other behind their hands – Gillenormand's friends of the old circles clearly knew exactly who Enjolras was. Enjolras for his part did not return the dubious favor of recognition, genuflecting gracefully to the host as he made the sign of the cross, and then taking his seat in one of the pews. They were the first of the Amis to arrive.

Grantaire maneuvered to the side where he might best get a glimpse in the transept of Delacroix's _Christ in the Garden of Olives_. He had not attended the salon in 1827 when it had been exhibited – by then he had ceased working in Antoine-Jean Gros' studios where he had begun as a _rapin_ , and had stopped attending his classes at the École des Beaux-Arts. Grantaire's professed admiration for Delacroix and Gericault had not pleased Gros, a follower of David and an exalter of powerful public men like the Emperor whom he depicted in appropriate classical poses and trappings.

Someone poked his ribs heartily, and he turned to face the bearded, grinning face of Bahorel, who slid beside him into the pew, followed by Prouvaire. Grantaire realized suddenly how much he had missed the old _flâneur_ , engaged as he was these days in running his vineyards. His letters had indicated that the process of producing wine had proved more difficult than expected, tying him more to the seasons than he had thought. Although his family had been chestnut growers for generations, whatever skills he had gained as a boy in farming – and Grantaire suspected they were scanty indeed – had not translated into his new life. Still, the harvest was long in and the grapes had gone to the cellarers, and he trusted his men to tend the vines well enough to leave the Cote d'Or to return to his familiar Paris haunts. Such visits, he assured Grantaire, were certain to be at least annual.

"Winecask!" Bahorel whispered in a friendly voice, grasping his arm. Grantaire winced, but smiled in return. The term, an affectionate part of their banter, used and returned in jest, now had unpleasant associations.

"You're the man with the intimate association with the vine, these, days-" he began in response, but Bahorel looked past him to where Enjolras had caught his attention.

"Ah – is that a censorious look in your eye, Enjolras? I haven't yet defiled the church, have I? Or is my mere presence blasphemy enough?"

Grantaire reached one hand behind and let his fingers brush Enjolras' own, guessing at the expression on his face. Enjolras had never partaken in the casual tormenting interplay of friends – he was capable of being far more cutting with silence or a look, but he would never deride Grantaire as his friends did as a "cask" in the typical camaraderie of drinking slang, and the affectionate nuances of the word might well escape him. Bahorel could not know that things had changed, and that the term had ceased to be apropos.

Fortunately Prouvaire made himself heard at this point, perhaps aware that something had annoyed Enjolras. "What do you think of the flowers? Wherever did they find so many blooms at this time of year?"

"Rumour has it that the bride’s guardian has enough tin to purchase the contents of every hothouse within fifty miles," Bahorel replied, "And speaking of whom – Enjolras, what do you make of M. Fauchelevent? I know he came to the barricades because of his niece's connection with Marius – although I've still to get the full story of that out of Courfeyrac – but why is he such an odd bird?"

"He is as he is," Enjolras responded in his infuriatingly calm way. Grantaire knew that Enjolras had spoken with M. Fauchelevent on one of his early visits to Marius during his recuperation, but that neither he nor Courfeyrac had been able to garner much information from the white haired man. Grantaire suspected a story there, but whatever it was, he had made it clear that he was not about to divulge it, and Enjolras – for whom the man's actions on the barricades spoke quite adequately – would not press him for it.

"I wager his gains are ill-gotten," Bahorel decided. "Why so furtive otherwise? I still can't fathom if he's the girl's father or uncle or what he is to her." Grantaire knew that Courfeyrac had been involved in some sort of fiddling about with Mlle Fauchelevent's papers – something about an _acte de notoriété_ – as he had been present in the office when Courfeyrac had come to consult Enjolras about some sort of pettifogging with the paperwork, but he kept his mouth shut.

"He did his part at the barricades," Enjolras said in that cool way of closing a conversation that, regrettably, his friends had a tendency to ignore. "And he saved Marius' life. I am not inclined to inquire into his personal affairs."

"But you have no natural curiosity about such things, Enjolras" Bahorel argued. "You, as is universally agreed, are of a cold temperament. We men, on the other hand, are blessed with curiosity, imagination, and a desire to stick our noses into the affairs of our fellow beings. It is what makes us great-hearted – we understand other human beings because we understand their lives as well as we do our own…"

"Oh, stow it, you lummox," Grantaire said lightly. "Don't go tormenting Enjolras about marble or ice or fire or whatever stone or element he is supposedly composed of today. This is a wedding!"

"And," said Prouvaire, "I suspect by that commotion I hear outside, the bridal party has arrived."

They had indeed, and there was laughter and conversation from outside that stilled as the festive party assembled.

Grantaire, seeing Marius so transformed, wondered if all men took on a good foot in height on their wedding day, and several inches to their chest. Or perhaps the latter was merely the padding Courfeyrac's tailor would have ensured was added to Pontmercy's suit, to fill out the breast. Regardless, he looked remarkably fine – and quite unlike the penniless dreamer Grantaire remembered of old, who gave off a vague air of shabby respectability. That Gillenormand's circles liked to refer to him by his dubious title tickled his friends immeasurably. For Courfeyrac, M. le Baron had replaced M. l'Abbe as his affectionately mocking form of address for his friend.

Courfeyrac looked almost dignified and elegant as he took his part in the procession – or would have, had he not broken the illusion by swiftly passing what was clearly a mask – either a fox or a cat, by the looks of it – to Lesgle as he walked past his pew, which the latter quickly concealed. Courfeyrac would never quite make a _bona fide_ dandy, Grantaire decided – he could never manage that aloof indifference that was so much a part of the style, and it was not _soigné_ to smile quite so much as Courfeyrac did. He wondered if Courfeyrac had driven in the wedding party carriages wearing his carnival mask, and decided that he quite probably had.

Mardi Gras…how different Carnival had been last year! Waiting to see if the cholera would cross the Channel, the festivities that year had taken on an even more frenetic aspect than usual. In the shadow of that stalking menace, the dances were wilder – the _Galop Infernal_ , the Cancan that scandalized the patrons of the ball at Les Variétiés, the masques. The _Descente de la Courtille_ had been madness, with vagabonds, beggars and tramps mingling with smart society in a Saturnalia, ladies of high rank side by side with whores, pimps swilling booze at cheap drinking booths with men of title. Rumor told of Harlequins, Columbines, and Pierrots stricken with the illness as they danced in the streets, to be carried to the Hôtel Dieu and thence to the morgue, to be buried in their costumes with the paint still on their faces. He remembered seeing red lights in the dark gloom of foggy streets that indicated not houses of pleasure, but first aid stations.

His eyes sought the reassuring church tapers, a relief from the memory of the lurid red lights, and the horror of that wild gaiety overlaying the creeping fear, first of the cholera, and then of the seditious sentiment in the streets. A future then had seemed a distant hope at best. Better the bottle, the dance, the laughter of the moment.

Mademoiselle Fauchelevent entered, and with her advance, the shadows retreated further. If Marius seemed taller in his new-found virile pride, she seemed the essence of youthful beauty. A little pale, but still the picture of health, her glowing complexion all but banishing the remembrance of deathly painted Columbines and their rouged, red lipped parodying of life. She had, during Grantaire's brief meetings with her, had a lively and birdlike charm – a quickness of movement and thought with a trill of conversation that he rather liked, and which contrasted admirably with her terribly serious lover. Now, of course, she was all virginal gravity, but he still smiled to see her. She was so very much alive, and hope and love were quick within her.

But all this meant that they must now rise, sit and kneel to the observance of the Mass. Urgh. Homilies. All this talk of duty and divinity and – oh, how he did detest this part of the whole business. Bahorel, that staunch old anti-clericalist, must be squirming too. And Enjolras…well, he wondered. Enjolras, thorough child of the Enlightenment that he was, was most emphatically a Deist. He, however, would not take the part of the anti-clericalists, except inasmuch as he wanted to curb the power of the Church in state affairs (something which had set him quite at odds with the Restoration, of course).

Grantaire amused himself for some minutes by pondering what Enjolras, who wouldn't have noticed a tree if it was growing out of the floor in the middle of his room until it got in his way, would have had to say to that old nature lover Rousseau and his spiritual ecstasies in sylvan settings. From there, Grantaire's wandering gaze and thoughts turned back to Delacroix's work and his row of sorrowing angels, distraught over Christ's torment. They were admirable as angels went – rather pretty, in fact, with less of the anaemic quality one often found in the seraphim of church art - but nothing on the man who stood at his side.

His eyes stole sideways to Enjolras, who had his own gaze slightly lifted to a point somewhere above the heads of the bridal couple and priest, and whose lips moved silently to words that Grantaire would be willing to wager had nothing to do with the ecclesiastical service. No wonder Célestin Nanteuil had asked him to model as the subject for some religious painting or other. The pity was that Enjolras had declined.

It was perfectly plain that Enjolras was elsewhere. Not through any theatricality of gesture – the softly moving lips were visible only to Grantaire at this proximity – but through that radiance of expression. Wherever Enjolras' thoughts were, it was a beautiful place.

And, quite probably, somewhere that Grantaire could not entirely follow. The thought, however, caused him no pangs. He had accepted the gap that emerged between them at their utmost polarities…he could never share Enjolras' joy in the abstract, his submergence of his individual consciousness in something outside himself. It was best likened, he supposed, to that feeling one had when listening to a sublime piece of music, or being overwhelmed by a great painting. A loss of consciousness of self to a harmony and rhythm outside time and the material world. He could never quite know it, anchored as firmly as he was in the earth, but he could dimly perceive it as something akin to that great love of beauty that Grantaire cherished.

Conversely, Enjolras would never really understand, except in the most theoretical way, the simple pleasure of a good meal, a warm fire and a bottle shared with friends over an hour's talk of superficial nonsense and sparring of wits.

But those who preached that two souls, joined, must share an absolute understanding and be completely in simpatico – as the priest was now misleading the very earnest young couple before him – were wrong. His union with Enjolras was something else.

The Chymical Wedding.

The thought, hitting him suddenly, tickled his fancy.

A union of opposites…for once, there was a use for all that esoteric tradition that his friends in the Latin Quarter so liberally dabbled in. Lunar wed to Sol…the feminine and the masculine elements united, polarities joined. The Alchemical Marriage was about the union of opposites…although he'd have to be careful how far he took the analogy, as the product of the _Mysterium Coniunctionis_ was the Divine Child, and how he and Enjolras were to manage that he could not say. But Enjolras was the irreconcilable reconciled, impossible as he seemed, and impossible as their union seemed. Fire and water, male and female, heat and cold, rigid and yielding…they were inextricably linked. That explanation would do, if he needed one. But does one need an explanation for love?

Do I love him for his beauty, for his conviction, for the passion that fires him? And what does he love me for? And do we need to have a reason?

Seeing Enjolras, his face limned in candlelight, Grantaire decided that no, he didn't need a reason. That, all lines of logic and rationale followed through to their conclusion, nothing made him as happy as Enjolras' shining, and his beauty, and his grace. That his love was returned was something he did not fully understand, but which he would accept.

And in doing so he would abandon the vaguely superstitious conviction of a lifetime that to name happiness was to dissipate it, choosing to embrace joy with arms wide.

The priest concluded his blessing on the couple and on the congregation, and below the long sleeve of his coat, Grantaire felt Enjolras's fingers reach to touch his own.


	9. Wedding Choral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Amis attend a Wedding Banquet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire's "Tennis" in his introduction by Hugo is a mistranslation in some English texts, but it's so endearing I've used it. The song that the rowdies sing is the one supposedly sung by the members of the bouzingos that led to the name being adopted. 
> 
> And this was around the time when the vogue for housewarming parties among Borel's set came into fashion.

Prouvaire's voice was rising forcefully, making itself heard above the flow of conversation weaving in with the violins and flute that played Haydn from a hidden alcove.

"We must not allow the urban reforms to outstrip those of the agrarian sectors!" he was declaring in a voice that was a hairsbreadth away from what could rightfully be described as 'ringing'. "If we allow the divide to grow, it will split the foundation of the Republic and make the entire edifice unstable."

Prouvaire's declaration unleashed a torrent of argument among his friends.

If Grantaire hadn't already adored his comrades, he would love them for this. They would sing Valois folksongs during a Revolution, and at a wedding reception argue economic reform beneath gleaming chandeliers while appropriate dinner music tinkled in the background.

"The railways are the key-" yes, that would be Combeferre. "We must expand the Lyon - Saint-Etienne line as soon as possible. We need a web of lines, traversing the entire country. Imagine leaving Paris and being on the shores of the Mediterranean in under a week – and think what it would mean to commerce."

"And where is the materiel to come from?" a voice rose in dissent. "We haven't the industry or resources to support the components – we'll be importing iron from the English!"

"Or do we enslave other countries to provide it?” Feuilly asked. “Are we to build a colonial empire?"

"We turn this problem into part of a greater solution," Enjolras said, speaking again after a long silence now that the discussion had turned away from the week's theatre offerings that had dominated earlier conversation. "Primary industry such as agriculture and mining, transport, the training of the workforce – they must all be applied to this obstacle. The government will invest in mining and metalwork and with the essential rail lines, encouraging also private investment. The rural producers will find their potential markets expanding, and industry will discover the benefits of transporting their products more cheaply and efficiently."

"But how are you to overcome the opposition of the shipping monopolies-?"

"Do we have enough of a workforce with the requisite skills-?"

"We must appeal to the nation's pride in our technological progress – the English cannot outstrip us in the matter of the railways…"

"Are we to rely on the benefits to trickle down to the unskilled urban poor? The Ultras and even the liberal bourgeoisie would expect us to let them take what crumbs fall from the table of a prosperous France!"

This was precisely the sort of conversation that had once aroused the worst in Grantaire – or at least, the most vehemently mocking instincts. He could not, even now, resist a bit of gentle provocation – a solemn question put to Feuilly as to whether it might not be advantageous to build a railway tunnel under the Channel from Montmartre to Covent Garden to better facilitate free trade in actresses – but for the most part his mood was contentedly benign rather than the aggressive expansiveness and forced hilarity of the past.

He still rather hoped for some friction between Gillenormand's circle and Marius' former student friends. That sort of entertainment he would never tire of – the contrast between the brittle disapproval of the old guard and the impulsive brashness of the young Republicans. But their host had cleverly managed the situation, minimizing the time for mingling among the guests before calling them in to dine, and ushering them to carefully demarcated ends of the table. One bold mademoiselle had induced Marius to give her an introduction to Courfeyrac – probably the most socially acceptable of the Republican contingent outside Combeferre – and the two had chatted gaily in defiance of a glowering mama, but otherwise it seemed that the lines had been drawn and it would take more alcohol to inspire anyone to cross them. And with that thought, he signaled for his glass to be refilled.

There was in this situation a terrible temptation to launch himself back into old habits. A bottle or two and any social awkwardness would vanish, and he could enjoy himself in freedom of thought and action, giving way to the temptation to shock those at the table who so evidently looked forward to being shocked. But he would not rebuild that barrier between himself and Enjolras…Enjolras, who - deftly and without appearing to order anyone to do anything - had managed to set up the seating arrangements so he was placed between Combeferre and Grantaire, and seemed rather content with the situation. Grantaire had been so pleased by this that he was willing to make the sacrifice of participating in some earnest analysis between the two friends of likely electoral distributions, but to his relief Enjolras did not try to drag him into any of the more tedious discussion related to their work. He was relieved when Courfeyrac – who had felt no need to show restraint whatsoever in the matter of drinking, and indeed thought it quite the opposite to virtuous to do so when one was at a friend's wedding – had loudly announced that there was to be no talk fitting for the Chamber of Deputies to pass their lips that night.

And Courfeyrac’s embargo on political talk had seemed successful, until someone had triggered Prouvaire on the matter of railways.

So he was content to let his mind and gaze wander, as was his wont – and certainly there were many things to catch the eye, from the gloriously garish Murano chandelier above them, with brightly colored glass birds perched on the glass arms, to the blinding array of gold and silver plate on display. But always his eyes were drawn back to the happy couple, and the glow of joy they cast around them. Some minor disruption to convention, caused by the absence of the bride's guardian, had allowed Marius to take one of the armchairs at her side, and it seemed ridiculous that it should be otherwise. They should be seen thus, enthroned side by side in their happiness.

He wondered if Marius was bold enough to hold her hand and let their feet play against each other under the table, and decided that Madame la Baronne probably was, even if Marius wasn't.

"They do look resplendent, don't they?" said a voice at his ear. He turned in surprise to Enjolras.

"Don't tell me you are noticing such things now? I'm getting too old to bear such shocks – I beseech you, please don't go on to tell me that the bride is exquisitely beautiful…I couldn't bear the dissonance such an observation coming from you represents.”

"But she is beautiful – as extraordinarily beautiful as is Marius." Enjolras turned his gaze full on Grantaire now, his open and guileless expression radiant. "Think of all they represent…they have come through trials and great unhappiness. They are the future, and as such are all the joy and the love that belong to their state. They have known great sorrow – and it may be that they will know it again – but we may hope that they are among the first to take that step into the world we newly create, and that their children will know an even better world still, and so on until we reach beyond mere greatness and into happiness."

"Well." Grantaire paused, as unprepared as ever for these moments from Enjolras, and the expression of his remarkable, unconquerable power of hope and belief. "I…"

"There is more than one type of union…of wedding." Enjolras said in a voice for Grantaire alone. "Just as there is more than one type of family, beyond that which is recognized in the narrow terms of the law. A true marriage is that where love enters in."

Alongside the pure mingling of souls and all that he had been assured a marriage entailed on an elevated level, Grantaire thought suddenly of desire, and that of a very physical kind.

________________________________________

 

It wasn't easy to corner Marius away from his bride for even a few moments, but as she was, with a quick spontaneity and warm charm, moving around the guests to try and speak all in turn as they mingled after dining, he detained the groom for a moment.

"I meant to send the gift over earlier" he mumbled. "Sorry about how ill presented it is," he added, only realizing as he produced it from an inside coat pocket that the hastily chosen rags he had wrapped the work in were not precisely in keeping with the winking silver and pretty textiles of the other gifts set out on the table, and were already coming undone. 

"Er – thank you, Grantaire…" Marius murmured uncomfortably. But then he gave a gasp, a genuine exclamation of delight, and finished removing the wrapping. "Grantaire! They're beautiful!"

He held two matching ivory miniatures in his hands, portraits of Marius himself and Cosette.

"Glad you like them," Grantaire said softly.

"But this is Cosette's very likeness! And that is her favorite rose brocade gown! However did you manage to find an artist to do this?"

"I have some little experience in producing daubs," Grantaire explained. He had sketched Mlle Fauchelevent after one of their brief meetings. The miniature scale of the paintings hid any small sins of omission or commission. He had committed Mlle Fauchelevent's most striking features – he must remember to call her Madame Pontmercy, or even Madame La Baronne as some of Gillenormand's crowd delighted in doing – to memory. The wealth of chestnut hair and her beautiful eyes were her strongest points. With these, and a decent if not exact approximation of her nose and chin, the likeness worked in miniature. "Enjolras bought the ivory as his contribution," he added. Actually, he had made the suggestion to Enjolras, who had absentmindedly fished out some notes from his bureau and told Grantaire to do with them as he pleased. Grantaire had hoped to have the paintings framed, but of course time had run out and even yet the paint was scarcely dry.

"This is so charming-" Marius said, clearly entranced. "I must show her!" Grantaire took no offence at being left behind as Marius wove his way off through the guests – where the new Madame la Baronne was concerned, the groom was even more single-minded than usual. He smiled after his friend as he watched him stumble into a chair in his eagerness to reach his wife, only to be nearly bowled over by a thump on his own back.

"That," said Courfeyrac - at his most merry and most physical, respecting no boundaries - "was a perfectly splendid thing to do. Now they need never be separated – Marius can set her portrait up before himself even when one or the other is at their toilette, and gaze on it when he –"

"I'm glad you think so," Grantaire hastily interrupted. "I noticed you overfilled Gillenormand's glass. It would have been more prudent to let the wait staff fill it half way – you wasted good champagne by taking the bottle from them and insisting on filling it to the brim." Gillenormand's hands, shaking from age, had splashed a good deal over the table when he proposed his toast to the married couple.

"How can one be stingy with such a fine fellow? Any table cloth worth the name should be bathed in champagne – why, I'd take all my linens and drench them in the stuff. Let us all be awash in it! God, but I thought he'd never dry up. It was a pretty speech, but do you know, it reminded me of you when you are in your ‘Queen Mab’ stage of drunkenness.”

"My what?"

"Oh, that's what Prouvaire calls it, and we took it up – he read it in an English play – Shakespeare, probably. Some long monologue about fairies…it quite suits you when you're all done up over some trivial matter or other. Queen Mab hath been with you…"

"If you must mock me, can't you at least do it with something from Scribe or Hugo? I'd even settle for Molière."

"I know of no national boundaries when it comes to humor, and Scribe and Hugo aren't nearly funny enough." He sniffed and rubbed his nose. "Not intentionally, anyway. But yes – Gillenormand's speech would do a playwright proud, and it was perfectly charming, but I could have done without a third of it." Courfeyrac looked to where the Pontmercys had their heads bent over Grantaire's miniatures. "Now there's something for your Old Man Jacques to observe – the marriage rites of Republicans and the Ancien Régime, personified in the person of our young Revolutionary ex-Bonapartist Baron and his enigmatic bride!"

"Hush, Courfeyrac!" Grantaire said, darting his eyes about quickly – he certainly did not want any of the Ultras knowing who authored those pieces.

"Psh – they'd never take you for the author. By the way – I've been asked to knock together something for _Le Charivari_. They're even looking at getting Feuilly to provide one of the cartoons…although he seems a bit intimidated at the thought of appearing alongside Daumier and Philipon. I've been trying to persuade him that tonight's festivities would make a wonderful subject."

"Speaking of charivaris," Grantaire seized the opportunity for a distraction before Courfeyrac warmed too much to his beloved subject of the press and became indiscreet in his great merriment, "Have you given up the idea of holding one for our newlyweds?"

"Indeed, I have not!" Courfeyrac responded with tremendous indignation. "Marius positively requires one – and it must be as loud as possible, in commensurate measure to his quiet self-constraint, a balance to the universe and…and…I don't know, natural humors or something." He leaned forward and added, in a stage whisper, "I've managed to persuade one of the kitchen maids to put aside some pots and pans – half-an-hour after they retire to bed, we'll set up such a clamor-"

"I did not realize that your dandyism had extended to adopting this particularly unkind English tradition," Combeferre said as he joined them.

"The charivari is an ancient and respected French custom-"

"That, until comparatively recently, was used in this country by the peasantry to punish those of whose marriages they disapproved. It was only the upper class for whom it has always been a celebration. And one in dubious taste, I might add."

"It is a perfectly innocent, perfectly charming way of celebrating the bride and groom. Isn't it, Grantaire?"

Grantaire demurred. Personally he rather thought the idea of rousing Marius out of his marriage bed with a great clamor was as entertaining as it was inappropriate, but there was no doubt what Enjolras would think of it…not to mention Marius.

"You are becoming altogether too much like Lord Henry Seymour," Combeferre scolded. "You are developing an appalling _snobisme_ towards the English, and are adopting the worst of their habits – soon you'll be sharing his predilection for cruel practical jokes, the most appalling part of this current Anglophilia."

Courfeyrac was as stung as any man in his happy state could be, which fortunately was not overly much.

"I am most certainly not an Anglophile – not in any sense beyond worshiping at Savile Row."

"Where you pay devout homage. And how many stitches did you so breathlessly tell us were in Madame Pontmercy's English made lace again?" Grantaire teased.

"You could do with paying a bit more attention to dress. Although I will admit you're looking smart enough tonight-"

Courfeyrac made a sudden dive at Grantaire, wrapping one arm around his neck and grabbing a fist full of his friend's stomach as he did so.

"Courfeyrac, get off me!" Grantaire started laughing. Courfeyrac held on and gave a few more experimental pokes.

"Hah! I knew you couldn't have lost so much weight just in the few weeks you and Enjolras have taken up the batons again – you have got some underpinning there!"

"Purely the excellent cut of my new clothes," Grantaire snorted. "Unlike some, I do not resort to corsets."

"What? What is that supposed to mean?"

"Well, it is rumored, you know – it is even said you inadvertently swapped stays with one of your mistresses one morning…"

"Lies! All of it foul slander! This," Courfeyrac said, putting his hands on his slim waist with that little quirk of sleek, feline vanity he was known for, "is pure Courfeyrac, unadulterated."

"Then you've padded your chest and shoulders."

"One must make some concessions to the art of the tailor," he said urbanely. 'Anyway, come play tennis with me next week – we should have more time now, before the campaigning begins in earnest. I know you and Enjolras will be traveling to the South in the lead up to the plebiscite. A few good rigorous games…you know you'll never get him on the courts, unless rackets are to be converted into some bludgeoning weapon."

"Happily, Courfeyrac, if Enjolras can spare me."

"Hah – this is a turnaround…I don't know if I'll ever get quite used to Enjolras regarding you as indispensable. Ah-" he smiled, spotting his pretty conversational partner of earlier in the evening. "There is Mlle Colbette…I wager she'll be up for a decent charivari..." Courfeyrac wandered off without taking his leave, somehow managing, even elevated on far too much champagne, to slide his way around people and objects with that quick native grace he possessed.

Combeferre smiled after him, shaking his head.

"Passing his bar exams and finding employment have not noticeably altered him for the respectable," he observed.

"Would you have it any other way?" Grantaire asked. "He'll have plenty of time to subside into respectability – one day he'll make a fine _bon papa_ , and he'll have a charming wife who will turn a blind eye to his affairs as he is a doting father and responsible Representative. But not yet. You were a bit harsh over this silly pots and pans business – you know there's not a malicious bone in his body, and he really is fond of Marius."

"Of course," Combeferre grinned. "He is the most generous soul I have ever known. But he has rarely met a boundary he hasn't delighted in stepping over – or trampling on. While he shows remarkable delicacy in some matters, in others, well…less so."

"You could ask Enjolras to tell him to forebear."

Combeferre shook his head. "Courfeyrac will listen to Enjolras in matters of politics and strategy, but he might take an instruction like that as a challenge to go ahead, just for the joy of provoking Enjolras as well. And I'm not sure Enjolras would do it anyway – he has so earnestly studied the first Revolution and the mistakes that were made, and has such strong ideas on the error of imposing the State on local customs, that he might take a rather unexpected view of the matter and stand aside. Or he might have one of his more puritanical turns. Though the general rule for the latter is that if something does not directly interfere with the work that must be undertaken, does not adversely affect an innocent party, and he is not expected to participate, he will turn an indifferent eye."

"But he listens to you in so many matters."

"Some, yes, but not all. Our ideas work both ways, and while I may claim to have some sway over him as we share a similar idea of our destination if not always our methodology, he values the others as well, the more so as time has gone on. Feuilly, for example, with his expansive ideas valuing cultural identities and concepts of nationality while still seeing an overarching brotherhood of man. And Courfeyrac he knows is more attune to the warmth of human interactions than most people. And then there's you."

"Ah, yes. May I ask – because I am still determining this – where do I fit in?"

"I have wondered about that myself," Combeferre said thoughtfully, taking another sip of his wine. "You do know, of course, that the whole revolution in your relationship with Enjolras that has taken place has been…sometimes puzzling to the rest of us. I knew, of course, that Enjolras always saw some potential in you – he'd have banished you years ago from our meetings otherwise, but instead seemed inclined to give you opportunities, leading often to his own frustration."

"Enjolras and I have discussed all this and come to an understanding," Grantaire said quietly.

"I thought you must have. Sometimes his desire to believe in people has lead him perhaps too far into idealizing them, and yet there is always that underpinning realism. Either can gain the upper hand unexpectedly. Somehow the two have finally balanced in your case. When I – er – some of us raised objections to you going to work for him, suggesting another position where you wouldn't be a constant presence to irritate him with your more intemperate characteristics of speech and behavior, he insisted that the man who had been revealed to him through the crucible of the barricades had all the qualities, though some were underdeveloped, to be a servant of the people and a partner in his work."

Grantaire laughed. "I can see you've toned that latter part down somewhat, but even so, I can still hear him saying it!"

"Yes – he was characteristically eloquent on the subject. At any rate, we took his judgment on it. Courfeyrac thought it a very good idea as well, which gave me some heart – Courfeyrac judges his friends leniently, but is usually an accurate weather-vane when it comes to the strength of a human heart."

"That he is." Grantaire looked fondly to where Courfeyrac, the Mademoiselle at his side, was earnestly gesturing as he spoke to Joly, Lesgle, and a lancer in smart uniform. He could guess the subject matter, given that Joly seemed to be applying his sagacity to disagree with what Courfeyrac was proposing and even Lesgle was shaking his head – only the lancer and Mlle Colbette seemed to be on his side, and hopefully even Courfeyrac couldn't make up the necessary racket with only two cohorts. It was unlikely that the fretting mama would allow it anyway.

________________________________________

Sometime around midnight, it was noticed that the bridal couple had slipped away. Guests smiled and nodded at each other with a knowing look, and those of the Amis who had imbibed more than others exchanged a few good-naturedly obscene jokes about the nuptial bed. They began to file towards the doors, setting all the neighborhood dogs of St-Germain barking as they filed out into the rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. Bahorel and Prouvaire were trying to reconcile Courfeyrac to the failure of his plans (and incidentally to avail themselves of the carriage he had hired) by inveigling him into a long trek over to the rue d'Enfer to continue the night's festivities.

"We can make all the noise there you could desire, Courfeyrac!" Bahorel cried, setting off another round of the canine chorus. "That is the essence of the Bouzingos!"

"Pah. Bouzingos are passé since the advent of the Republic," Prouvaire protested, sweeping his musketeer's hat in the air. "Optimism has replaced disaffection. We need to express that…"

"Do you mean to tell me that in the months I have been away from Paris, the charnel house is no longer in vogue?" Bahorel demanded.

"Oh, cadavers are always in vogue," Courfeyrac said, interested in spite of himself. "And there's still plenty of demolishing left to do…old mores, old artistic conventions, the tyranny of birth and the tyranny of money…" he raised his voice on the last words for the benefit of some of the other departing guests, quite rudely. "But there is a new spirit in the world of art and the world of letters."

"I'm glad to hear it. All Prouvaire has written to me has been enthusiastic appreciation of Borel's _Rhapsodies_ , inserted between long interludes of statistics on the census and digressions into his latest piece for that arts journal that his friends started up - what is it? _La Liberté_."

"Poor Borel," Prouvaire shook his head. " _Rhapsodies_ hit the tone for nearly a year, but now it does not speak of our mood. The _zeitgeist_ has passed him by." Prouvaire was currently on an excursion into German literature – a volume of Hoffman was usually to be found around his person somewhere – and they were accustomed to his occasional use of German.

"He still has the Journal. Speaking of Borel, are we to descend on them? And Courfeyrac, will you come too?"

"As long as you don't stretch me out in the cellar if I poison myself with Borel's punch, lead me to it! Let me just bid my goodbyes to this perfectly splendid fellow!"

Courfeyrac veered over to embrace his new-found boon companion, the lancer. As near as Grantaire could determine, their sudden mutual admiration sprung from an excess of champagne and an admiration for the charms of Mlle Colbette.

"Will you come with us, Grantaire?" Prouvaire asked. "Let us make it like old times – Joly and Lesgle might even be induced to join us."

Grantaire smiled and shook his head. "No…too old and too fatigued, and anyway, it looks like Courfeyrac intends to drag his new companion along with him – there won't be room for me." Courfeyrac did seem to have the lancer in tow.

"Then you will dine with us tomorrow, or the day after?"

"I believe Enjolras is hoping for a…a gathering of the Amis, now Bahorel is back for a time." He couldn't bring himself to say supper, as the idea of Enjolras presiding over any such conventional thing seemed too patently absurd."

"A housewarming!" Cried Prouvaire. "Excellent! They are all the fashion. Well, we shall see you there!"

The trio, dragging along the equally sodden lancer, decanted themselves into the fiacre and drove off, singing raucously over the protests of the driver, _"Nous allons faire du bouzingo, du bouzingo, du bouzingo!"_

"We're off too," Joly said, pointing his cane down the street with an enthusiastic jab. "We're staying at my father's tonight – damned if I'm going to try and make it back to the Quartier tonight, not with all those carnival goers about."

"We could go join them," Lesgle suggested, raising Courfeyrac's forgotten cat mask to his face. "Or go and see if we can slip into Les Variétés."

"No, remember I promised Feuilly if he wanted to stay with us that we wouldn't be late – although at the moment, he seems determined to make a night of it talking politics. Hey! Feuilly!" Feuilly broke off his earnest talk with Combeferre and Enjolras and came to join them.

"I won't hold you to your kind offer," he said. "Combeferre and Enjolras have offered me a place in their fiacre, and Combeferre has offered a mattress." Feuilly yawned.

"Settled then!" Lesgle said. "We bid you good evening, all –" he turned and looked up at the façade of the house. "And an excellent evening to you too, Monsieur and Madame le Baron!" he shouted. The dogs started up again.

Grantaire felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned smiling, knowing who it was.

"Let us go home," Enjolras said to him, then leaned forward and whispered Grantaire's Christian name in his ear – perhaps the most intimate thing Grantaire had ever heard.


	10. The mysterium conjunctum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding night of Enjolras and Grantaire, the alchemical marriage, suffused in light and joy. Grantaire has stumbled into a love story, and will see Enjolras grow old.

The passage du Doyenné was too narrow for their carriage, and they alighted at the end of it to walk the short distance. There were a few lights along the street – some from the ruins of the Chapelle Doyenné where a few masquerade goers had made their way to the ramshackle stand selling drink beneath the bare ribs of the Romanesque arches, and some from the house next to it that Grantaire knew housed a group of students and writers - or at least that was how Enjolras had vaguely described them (he suspected at least one was a poet acquaintance of Prouvaire). Other lamps and candles cast their stray beams out from the buildings that flanked their own. There were more points of illumination than one would expect, given the late hour. The street was mostly sleeping, but it was alive.

"Another family has moved in on the third floor," Enjolras said, gazing up at the slivers of light that appeared between the shutters. "Feuilly has been looking to find others that are suitable candidates. And the top floors of the buildings alongside will be finished within the next few weeks. There is a charcutier looking at setting up business at the corner, so Mme Hulot tells me."

"Can you do anything about the building materials the Emperor discarded like so many child's blocks?" He asked, knowing Enjolras couldn't see his smile in the dark. “So many building stones.”

"All the way between here and the Tuileries. They may be re-purposed. Too much in Paris is still incomplete. But we are not so very much interested in great monuments when there are people to house..."

"I'm glad you're not working in the Treasury. Financing all these projects –"

"We need to attract investment," Enjolras said. "The State can fund some of them, but we must persuade the private investors as well. It is like the railway projects – we must build the infrastructure to bridge the divides between those who generate wealth and those who provide our workforce, and our urban and rural populations."

"Enjolras –" he moved his hand from around Enjolras' arm to place it on his shoulder when they reached their own door – "Give it time. You cannot propel France into the 19th Century and complete decades of work that has been left undone in a matter of months."

Enjolras, standing one step higher, looked down on him. The carriage light by the door backlit his head, accentuating that halo glow of his hair, but Grantaire could still make out a sad smile.

"I know. We are young men in a hurry...and as such must take care. Young men in a hurry may propel change, but, as Combeferre reminds me, they are also prone to make mistakes of haste."

"But the lights are going on again in at least one Paris street," Grantaire said gently.

"Yes..." Enjolras smiled. "They are." He held out his hand and pulled Grantaire inside the doors of their home.

There was still a strong smell of paint and damp plaster in their rooms, and the white walls seemed somewhat stark with the sparse furniture. The shabby, faded tableaux stood out even in their soot begrimed muted colours, and he caught Artemis's conspiring smile as they walked through the salon to the room that they had selected for their bed chamber, discarding coats and hats. 

The fire Mme Hulot had built burned low, and as Enjolras built it up with more wood and raked the coals over before replacing the firedogs, Grantaire lit the bedside lamp. Rising, he met Enjolras in the middle of the room, beside the bed...the new bed that Enjolras had just purchased, plain in style but comfortably large enough to accommodate them both. Enjolras' familiar armoire stood in the corner, along with a few new pieces of furniture, a chair, and a deep rug, the furnishings almost lost in all the space.

"Here we are," Grantaire murmured.

"Yes."

"Are you...afraid?" he asked gently. "Not afraid – I mean nervous –"

"No." Enjolras was smiling on him with trust and warmth. "I want you."

They met in a kiss, slow, deep and tender, building from that tenderness into passion. With only a slight hesitation, he unbuttoned Enjolras' tailcoat and waistcoat. Enjolras, after a moment, began awkwardly mirroring his movements, divesting Grantaire of his own clothes.

He felt the shock of cool air on skin as his lover slid his shirt from his shoulder...and the greater surprise of Enjolras' warm lips and mouth on his neck like a caress, trailing a path down to his collar bone. He slid his own hands up under Enjolras' fine cotton shirt, and through the heightened sensitivity of his finger tips he felt skin slide silkily over the defined muscles of his back. He ran his touch around to Enjolras' waist, resting his hands momentarily at the defined abdomen, then down to the fall of his trousers.

"Perhaps we should remove our footwear?" Enjolras said softly and not without a touch of amusement. Practical even in this moment.

"Er – yes."

That accomplished, the rest of their clothing was soon discarded. They stood face to face, unclothed, so close that Grantaire could feel the warmth of Enjolras' skin. Enjolras cupped his face with one hand, looking at him with that compelling gaze, no less intense, but with the implacable ice having given way to heat. The other he draped around Grantaire's waist, and pulled him tightly close, so they stood pressed together, nothing between them.

He was aware Enjolras' breathing – the deepening sound of arousal as his kisses became harder and fiercer, desire and lust rising. Pulling away slightly, he tugged his lover towards the bed – Enjolras squeezed his hand as they pulled back the turned down covers and fell into bed together, legs and arms tangled, Grantaire giving a low and only slightly nervous chuckle. It was Grantaire’s not unpleasant task to prepare and guide, Enjolras following the physical cues without words.

And it was heart wrenchingly erotic, the sheer pleasure in who his lover was more than enough to compensate for Enjolras’ inexperience and lack of skill until his lover’s confidence in his own strong, athletic body eventually overcame the abrupt tentativeness of his movements, his strokes becoming stronger and harder, uncomfortable friction giving way to building a heat coiling low in Grantaire’s belly, with him gasping for air, trying to keep his eyes open so that he might see Enjolras’ hooded gaze on his face and the parted, moist lips...a carnal echo of Enjolras’ expression in the church that should have been blasphemous, but was not, no – it was sacred and beautiful. 

Grantaire wanted to stay there forever, fixed with that expression, that transfiguration, their joining. So overwhelming was the combination of heightened emotion and heightened senses that he could hardly make out what Enjolras was saying – words and actions and touch and smell all converging, but finally he disentangled the sounds – and they were abrupt, gasped phrases of love and light and joy, a litany of hope and the future broken off as Enjolras, one hand clenched Grantaire's hair and the other clasping his hip so tightly it must bruise, leaned down to catch his mouth in kisses that were short and desperate because both were so breathless.

It was almost too much. Grantaire had not known he was so empty, to now feel so full, and it was almost too much to hold – this feeling must spill from his fingertips and run from him like water. But hold on to it he did until both had climaxed, and even then, as Enjolras collapsed next to him, recovering, but reaching out for Grantaire before his breathing had even begun to even out, Grantaire retained that sensation of being infused with light.

Enjolras was touching his face now, as if to assure himself that Grantaire was real, was beside him, was as tangible as any other reality. His eyes lost the intensity of their lovemaking, softened to warmth, his smile gentle as he lay his head on the pillow, never taking his gaze from Grantaire's.

"So –"

He shifted closer, now he had gained some equilibrium. Enjolras's touch was now lightly caressing, his fingers brushing over Grantaire's slight belly. Grantaire chuckled – once, he might have felt the need for a joke at this moment with a new lover, to break the sense of intimacy so both could roll over and go to sleep, or one might be able to leave the disheveled bed without a sense of furtive shame.

"My love," he whispered instead. But it did amuse him to feel that touch. He felt no real shame in his body – not when Enjolras so demonstrably appreciated it, but the contrast had to appeal to his humour. "What you were saying – you used the word sublime didn't you? We must be the sublime incarnate in this moment – the grotesque and the beautiful joined."

Enjolras didn't frown or scold in rejection of the little Romantic conceit.

"Perhaps. There is in each of us something of both –" he placed on finger on Grantaire's mouth to silence his protests. "Prouvaire told me of something he once heard – 'there is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion.'"

"The [i]mysterium conjunctum[/i],' Grantaire whispered. "The alchemical marriage."

Enjolras answered him with soft kisses.

They lay in their nuptial bed – all that was to be said had been said, so they twined limbs and bodies until they were comfortable, each accommodating the other. But Grantaire lingered awake after Enjolras closed his eyes, watching him sleep for the first time. The room was dark now, only firelight casting strange shadows. And in that trick of the light, he saw the colour of Enjolras' hair darken, and the illusion of lines cast on his face. He looked old...old, and still beautiful, with that fine, fierce nobility, but mellowed and with years of life and existence behind him.

Grantaire held him the tighter, rejoicing in his vision of the years to come, hugging to himself with joy the knowledge that he would see this come to pass, that he had somehow stumbled into a love story, and that he would see Enjolras grow old.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it ends, the improbable story with the improbable happy ending. I've thought of revisiting this AU, and may one day do so.


End file.
